


The Deadly Fang: Kriivah

by Alkuna



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Assassination, Betrayal, Creative License, Dark Brotherhood Questline, F!Non-Dovahkiin, F/M, Female Protagonist, Love, Murder, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 56,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkuna/pseuds/Alkuna
Summary: An assassin from the Hammerfell Chapter of the Dark brotherhood comes to Skyrim when her Sanctuary falls. Renae Grigori, aka Kriivah, is not your typical cold-blooded assassin; green eyes, red hair and a smiling mouth hide the soul of a wolf and a penchant for poisons. Meeting a jester on the road was only the beginning of her tale.-----Mostly follows the Dark Brotherhood storyline, with some creative license used.





	1. Chapter 1

_The young Breton opened her eyes to the familiar, gently swaying tree house of her mentor. The Bosmer was seated wearily nearby, face still streaked with woad from the ritual._

_It had worked. Hircine had been thwarted and the melding of two souls was complete. The wolf soul within her own silently inquired about everything her gaze rested on. She shared her knowledge as best she could of the human things that surrounded them._

_As she lay, blinking at the intricately carved walls, her eyes came to rest upon one in particular. It was a wolf, with a keen eyed crow perched upon its shoulder. The wolf seemed to be… smiling. The crow had its wings upraised, beak open as if in speech. A hint of a grin seemed to be secreted in that parted beak. A burst of curiosity came from within her that for once, she could not answer._

_“Delilyn, why do the wolf and the crow stand like that?” Renae asked her mentor._

_“Because the Crow and the Wolf are good friends.” The Bosmer didn’t seem at all put off by the sudden question._

_“Friends? How can that be?”_

_“Both are predators, though the ignorant claim the crow is a scavenger only. Crow feeds upon smaller prey, and so does not compete with Wolf for food. Wolf is strong in packs. Crow is strong in murders. The two recognize that the other is dangerous in their own right.”_

_“Murders?”_

_“A group of crows is called a murder.”_

_“Oh. How do they become friends then, if they know the other is dangerous?”_

_“They respect one another for their strengths and they benefit from one another’s presence. Wolf’s sharp teeth bring down large prey like deer and elk. Her teeth can cut through the tough hide to the soft meat beneath. Food that Crow would not be able to taste otherwise.”_

_“What does Wolf get out of the bargain?”_

_“The Crow is a jester. Crow teaches Wolf how to play, and helps her remember that life is not all about hunting and killing and responsibilities to the pack. Crow makes the Wolf laugh when laughter is most needed.”_

_“I am now a wolf… but a lone one. When I return to the Dark Brotherhood, they will be my pack. My responsibilities will be everything. I won’t have many opportunities to meet strangers that I am not hunting. How will I ever meet a crow?”_

_Delilyn smiled enigmatically. “Do not fret,_ Baan Dar _’s Own. One way or another, Wolf and Crow find one another. Until then, Wolf’s strength comes from her pack. Trust your wolf, and form pack bonds with those she accepts.”_


	2. Chapter 2

_Many years later..._

The guards at the checkpoint eyed her suspiciously over the tops of her papers, and she wondered if the Nords were going to give her too much trouble. She hoped not; she had carefully cultivated her appearance to look as harmless as a lone female traveler could, without looking like bandit bait.

She had the narrow face and pale complexion that most Bretons shared, coupled with long red hair done in a single braid that fell down her back, and expressive green eyes over a mouth that seemed to be slightly smiling even at rest. Her ears were slightly pointed, a throwback to the elf blood that ran through the Breton race.

Her weapons; a bow and arrows in plain sight and easy reach next to her on the carriage seat, and two daggers at her hips were perfectly reasonable armaments. No one walked about unarmed; even children were given daggers and instructed on their use almost as soon as they could walk. Her hide armor was simple and unadorned, but well-lined with fur to help keep her warm in the icy climate.

Her carriage was heaped high with tools of her trade: the most visible being an impressive set of pots, pans and kettles, mixed with cutting boards, a vast array of knives for performing various cuts in meat and vegetables, and sacks full of foodstuffs, as well as packets of seeds.

Unknown to the guards, a fine chain adorned with spikes was tucked into her long braid; a nasty surprise for anyone who thought they could control her in a fight. Every weapon she owned was coated with a potent poison that could drop a man in seconds. Her second nature also lurked behind her eyes, watching calmly; no one would know that a monster was present unless they attacked her. Finally, buried beneath everything else and wrapped in waxed canvas, she had a generous collection of every poisonous alchemy ingredient known to man.

“Name?” One guard barked.

“Renae Grigori.”

“That’s an Imperial name,” the guard snapped, scowling darkly. “You are clearly a Breton. What kind of game are you trying to play, here?”

“No game. I grew up in an Imperial household,” came the calm reply. “My parents died in the war against the Aldmeri Dominion. I was an infant at the time, my original name wasn’t known, and I was taken in by an Imperial couple who could not have children.”

The guard had the grace to look apologetic and even a little uncomfortable. Everyone knew someone who had lost a family member in the war, and even the hardest Nord knew how tasteless it was to pick on an orphan. It hardly mattered that it was twenty years later and said orphan was now an adult.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and asked, in a less hostile voice; “Reason for entering Skyrim?”

“I recently found out that I have extended family here in Skyrim. Rumor has it they live in the city of Dawnstar,” Renae said easily, “and I also live in hope that I can get a job in a well-to-do house or business.”

“And what job might that be?” the guard asked, raising a brow, as another circled around to the back of her cart and lifted the tarp to eye her things suspiciously.

“I’m a chef.”

“That would explain all the knives,” the guard at the back of the carriage commented, loud enough to attract the attention of several other guards who closed in to have a look, gripping their weapons meaningfully.

“Have you ever butchered a cow?” she inquired, wearing an expression of wide eyed innocence. “Every part of the cow has its own texture and toughness of the meat. You need to use different knives to get the cut right, and each part has to be cooked differently in order to make it taste good.”

“My brother owns a cattle farm in Cyrodiil,” another guard piped up. “These look similar to his set, and if you get him going, he’ll talk for hours about all the cuts of meat he sells.”

“Very well,” the first guard acknowledged, waving her on. “Keep your nose clean and you won't have any trouble with the hold guards. Good luck and keep your eyes open; bandits and brigands like to ambush travelers on, or off, the road.”


	3. Chapter 3

It took several days to travel from Falkreath to Whiterun at the slow pace her horse was able to keep, and the trail of bodies she was forced to leave behind told her plenty about the climate of Skyrim.

The number of bandits was astonishing. The Civil War was clearly turning the country into a lawless mess. On a number of occasions, she also had to do some fast talking with Stormcloaks or Imperial soldiers; both sides seemed to be caught up in a ‘with us or against us’ fervor. Her papers at least, were respected, and helped keep the suspicious from delving too deeply into her carriage and finding her alchemy collection.

The road leading north, past Whiterun, was in excellent condition. If her map was correct, she would need to turn west at the crossroads by the Weynon Stones and follow it as it wended its way north.

Much to her surprise, she came upon another carriage, broken down near a farm. A jester was ranting his frustrations to the world in general. He was quite animated; doing a peculiar stomping, hop-dance and waving his arms so expansively that if he had wings instead of arms, he would have propelled himself into the air several times.

"Agh! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! Stuck! My mother, my poor mother. Unmoving. At rest, but too... still!"

There was a burst of friendliness from her second soul, much to her surprise, and her mind was filled with the sensation of what felt like an enthusiastically wagging tail.

_What has you in such a good mood?_ Renae asked her wolf.

_He is Crow. We have found our Crow friend!_ Her wolf was almost squirming like an over excited pup. _You’ll see. Watch. Wait. See the Crow in him!_

Amused but not questioning her wolf’s judgment, Renae pulled up and hopped down, approaching the frustrated man with an expression of friendly concern. She had never seen a jester before, but his attire matched what she had heard. “What seems to be the problem, friend?”

"Poor Cicero is stuck. Can't you see? I was transporting my dear, sweet mother. Well, not her. Her corpse!” He gave a faint, nervous giggle, “She's quite dead. I'm taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But... aggh! Wagon wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke!" He kicked it in his frustration, then uttered a muffled curse and hopped on one foot for a moment.

Her lips turned up slightly at the way the jester spoke of himself in third person. Normally that was a quirk of the Khajiit. It was probably part and parcel of the whole jester thing, or so she’d assumed, since it was entertaining to hear him talk that way.

Renae glanced at the wagon wheel in question and noted that it wasn’t really damaged per se, so much as the bolts holding it in place had come out and the wheel had simply come off the axle. The carriage itself had clearly seen better days, and she suspected the poor man was making do with what he had managed to get his hands on for transporting his deceased family member.

“Cicero, this isn’t too bad; it’s really a simple fix if you have the tools. Maybe I can get some help for you.”

"Oh. Oh yes!” Cicero danced a little in place, clapping his hands in delight. “Yes, the kindly stranger can certainly help! Go to the farm - the Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road. Talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me! But he won't! He refuses!"

“Oh for Divine’s sake,” Renae muttered. “Is all of Skyrim full of bandits and jerks? Don’t worry Cicero, I’ll convince him.”

The man perked up considerably, “Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!"

_See? Crow._ Her wolf sounded amused.

_Okay, I can see it._ Renae held in a small laugh.

_I will form the bond._ Her wolf said, _then we will wait and see. If he rejects it, we will not push him._

Renae acknowledged both of them with a small shrug.

She had vowed long ago to trust her wolf’s decision in who to trust. As a social creature, if her wolf rejected someone, there was a good reason. That they walked alone so often and for so long was telling…. and thus far, always proven correct.

As for Cicero, well, the coin would help, certainly, though Renae wasn't so hard up that she would need all that much just to browbeat a man into doing the right thing. There were enough people in the world who chose to be scum. The rest of the population needed to step up to counteract that.


	4. Chapter 4

Cicero’s frustration had blinded him to his surroundings; which was bad for a Keeper, worse for a member of the Dark Brotherhood. As an assassin, it was wisest to be alert at all times. And yet his vulnerability had gifted him with the aid of a kindly goddess.

As the lady Breton walked up to the farm, Cicero felt as though he had been hit by a particularly big wave at the ocean. It was as if lukewarm water had flowed over him, knocking him over before dragging him under and pulling him out and away from shore. Only, instead of suffocating him, he felt it pouring over him, pouring into him, and then lifting and supporting him. And at the same time, he felt… anchored. His feet had not felt so solidly placed before. The strange feeling of being carried away and at the same time, grounded, only added to the confusion.

The more he examined this strange sensation, the more he realized that it was not really like water. Energy? But how was energy lukewarm? Cicero couldn’t find the words to describe what had engulfed his mind. Water-like-energy? Energy-like-water? Whatever it was, it made him crave its presence in a way that no bottle of skooma could.

Cicero the man, and Cicero the jester were two parts of his fragmented psyche; the broken pieces were sharp, digging into the mind as painfully as broken glass into flesh and glittering with seductive madness thanks to the near-decade of darkness and solitude that had broken him back in Cyrodiil.

Now that lukewarm… feeling lifted and comforted the parts of him that felt particularly fragile, filling the empty places and soothing the painful places. He could feel his mind clearing, just a little, of the giggling, glittering fog of madness.

A simple kindness from a complete stranger? Surely Cicero wasn’t so desperate that a random woman who did such a minor gesture could have such an effect? Well, it had been a long time since he had enjoyed the touch of a woman, true. But this didn't feel like the pleasure of anticipation for physical intimacy.

Not that she wasn’t pretty. _Beautiful._ Came the whispered word in the recesses of his mind.  Yes, yes, she was quite beautiful, with those eyes; sparkling like emeralds; and that smiling mouth that offered genuine kindness. She moved with a grace that captured the eyes; not acrobatic like Cicero, but with a finesse that had her flowing over the terrain like liquid.

He had seen wolves run like that. It was the embodiment of predatory purpose; of closing in on a destination with as little wasted energy as possible.

But Cicero was having trouble finding the source of that gentle tide that was washing over him so completely.

Simple, random acts of kindness weren’t powerful enough to cause this reaction… were they?

Cicero found that he couldn’t dismiss the thought entirely. She had offered to help completely out of the blue. Even more oddly, she had seemed almost personally offended by Loreius’ refusal. Not once had she mentioned payment. Cicero’s offer hadn’t brought anything more than a slight, disinterested shrug. No avarice had risen in the depths of those green eyes.

So strange! So strange… Cicero hoped that he wouldn’t have to kill her at a later date.

That hope, in itself, was odd. He had never felt such hesitation before.

Cicero put his hand to his chin and sank into deep thought, trying to puzzle out these strange, new feelings that had come with the strange, new clarity of mind.

.

Renae found Vantus Loreius in his garden, weeding. “Excuse me, there’s a man who needs your help down at the road.”

"That Cicero feller? Hmph. Tell me something I don't know.” The man muttered sullenly, “Crazy fool's already asked me about five times. Seems he's not satisfied with my answer. Why can't he just leave us alone?"

“Leave you alone? How exactly is he supposed to do that with a wagon wheel lying in the dust? He’s stuck where he is and he cannot move on until it’s fixed.” She spread her hands as if to say, ‘Can you really ignore something so obvious?’

“Then the guards can take care of him,” Loreius snapped.

“I see. The guards lug around the tools to repair carriages all the time around here, hmm?” Renae put her hands on her hips and gave him a disbelieving stare. “I’m sure those get passed around every shift change at muster, right along with the farrier’s kit in case a random horse throws a shoe, and an anvil, just on the off chance a guard wishes to forge a dagger in his free time while on patrol.”

The man dropped his eyes and muttered a sulky, “Hmph.”

“Surely you must realize that, crazy or not, Cicero would be willing to pay you for your help.” Renae gave him her best stern glare.

His eyes snapped back to her in annoyance. "Pay me? You think this is about money? Have you seen the man? He's completely out of his head! And a jester? Here, in Skyrim? Ain't been a merryman in these parts for a hundred years.” Loreius shook his head.

Renae’s expression slid from stern to disgusted disbelief. “Is that your best excuse?” Her tone implied that it had better not be.

Loreius winced slightly, but rallied back, “He's also transporting some giant box. Says it's a coffin, and he's going to bury his mother. Mother my eye. He could have anything in there. War contraband! Weapons! Skooma! Ain't no way I'm getting involved in any of that."

Renae softened slightly, “Loreius I understand your fears, but you cannot be held responsible for any of that. If the guards should ever come to question you, you have only to tell them the truth… tell them that all you did was fix a wagon wheel. You have neither the authority nor the manpower to strip search a wagon. A simple farmer like yourself certainly couldn’t be held responsible for something that is the guards’ job. You can do the right thing, and still remain safe from any fallout.”

“Look, I… I…” Loreius’ sharp retort faltered as the Breton held his gaze. Finally, he sighed deeply and sagged, "You're right. You're right. Feller might be nutters, might not. But fact is, he needs help. I turn him away, what kind of man am I, hmm?” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Look, um... Thanks. And I'm sorry for my unneighborly reaction. If you talk to Cicero, you be sure and tell him I'll be down to help soon."

Renae nodded slightly and gave him a small smile of approval before turning to jog back down the path to the road.

As she approached the carriage, she sensed something, more felt than heard. A soft double pulse. Too faint to identify, but oddly familiar, and subtly seductive. She followed it cautiously, drawn forward by the elusive call until she was standing right next to the carriage… where the pulse fell silent.

Renae blinked, feeling as though she were coming out of a trance. Realizing that she had been staring at the massive box, which likely held Cicero’s supposed mother, she shook her head slightly to clear it and turned to the Imperial, hoping that the man wasn't offended.

But the Imperial seemed to be in deep thought, himself.

Relieved that she didn’t need to explain herself, she took a single step toward him, scuffing her shoe slightly to alert him to her presence a second before she said, “Cicero?”

He came back to himself with a small start. “Ah! Cicero apologizes to the kindly traveler! Does she have news?”

“I do. Loreius says he’ll be down soon to repair your wheel.”

Cicero’s face transformed from pensive to overjoyed, "You… you did? He… He has?” He immediately started dancing again, “Oh stranger! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But more! Even more! My mother thanks you! Here, here! As promised for your troubles! Shiny, clinky gold! A few coins for a kind deed! And thank you! Thank you again."

Renae accepted the gold with mild amusement, “You’re quite welcome.” She glanced upward at the sky, “The sun is setting. Perhaps we should both make camp tonight after your wagon gets fixed. We can watch each other’s backs against the local wildlife.”

Cicero looked slightly startled, “Kindly Stranger would go such an extra distance to help poor Cicero?”

“Renae,” she extended a hand with a smile, “Renae Grigori. And I would be happy to have the extra company throughout the night.”

Cicero gripped her hand in both of his and shook enthusiastically, bouncing a little. “Then Cicero happily accepts Renae’s invitation!”

Once the wagon was repaired, the pair moved off the road and set up camp, feeding and watering the horses before settling down to eat around the campfire. Part of the safety would come from the horses themselves. The creatures were skittish enough to snap alert during the night if they heard or scented anything. The other half would be the human pair sleeping in shifts.

As they set up camp, Renae circled the space that would mark the boundaries of their camp. Although she didn’t… scent mark like a common wolf, walking the perimeter did leave a scent trail that satisfied her other half for the purpose of the temporary territory they were creating. As she moved to setting up her bedroll, and unpacking supplies for dinner, she very carefully made sure to cross the places where Cicero had walked minutes before. She couldn’t very well sniff his knuckles, so she made do with a more indirect method of learning his scent.

She detected a few subtle scents; incense and scented preservative oils that likely involved the coffin. A few herbal scents hinted that he picked flowers for his mother as well. And there was, of course, his own unique scent.

This intrigued her the most. His scent pulled at her; drawing her in as well as warning her away. He smelled of far off places. She could smell the danger of him and the sharp tang that warned of instability.

Her wolf had no problem with danger. The instability was concerning but not devastating. Members of the Dark Brotherhood killed without hesitation or remorse, which lent a whiff of insanity to even the most level headed of her brethren.

Even Renae knew that for many of Tamriel’s population, her own predilection for murder put her somewhere between evil and insane. She loved poisons. Was fascinated by them. With her wolf soul, killing was just part of life. It was all very personal in the eyes of the beholder.

That Cicero smelled like a Brother might mean that he was one. Or, if not, a potential recruit. Which brought about an interesting question: was the story about his mother a cover story, or was she missing something important?

“What brings Renae to Skyrim?” Cicero asked in between enthusiastic bites of the Breton’s cooking. “Oh! Oh this is amazing! Renae is an astonishing cook!

Brought out of her thoughts by the pleasure in his voice, she couldn’t help but smile. The jester’s joyous praise pleased her. “I’m glad to hear that I haven't lost my touch with food yet. I’m here to visit my family in Dawnstar.”

_There. Let’s see what he has to say about that._

“Truly? Why, Cicero just came from going to visit his own family there. Perhaps he has met Renae’s family in passing?” The man lifted his head to look at her with interest.

“Probably not,” Renae demurred, “My family is... a bit reclusive. If I recall, our home isn't in the city proper but set at a distance from it.”

Cicero looked up sharply at her, emotions chasing back and forth across his face. “Cicero might know the Family Renae is speaking of…” he said cautiously. “His own family is rather reclusive also, but they weren’t home. They haven’t been for a very long time. And it’s sad, sad, sad. It would have been such fun. There’s a riddle you see, a riddle for getting inside.” The jester’s high pitched voice slipped suddenly into a cold and vaguely threatening whisper. “ ‘What is life’s greatest illusion?’ and if you don’t know, you’re stuck, stuck outside in the snow!”

Renae dropped her spoon into her empty bowl with a clatter, staring at him intently. So he **was** a Brother then! She said softly, “Innocence, my brother.”

Cicero swallowed the final mouthful of food with a bit of difficulty, his golden brown eyes locking on her own. “Is it true then? Renae…. Renae is part of Cicero’s Family? Part of the Dark Brotherhood?”

“I am.” They were both silent for a moment, then Renae said, “I came to Skyrim from Hammerfell. Our chapter there is… no more. I’m the last. I’ve been relying on old books that say there’s a chapter in Dawnstar. But you said that their Sanctuary is deserted?”

“Completely, completely.” Cicero sighed, “Well other than the traps and the ghostly guardians, of course.”

Renae grimaced. An active Sanctuary only needed the living assassins to keep it safe. That the specters of past Dark Brotherhood members roamed the halls amongst an array of traps meant the Sanctuary had fallen, and what was left was meant to be a nasty welcome for intruders who were expected to invade.

“Cicero did, however, find evidence that a new Sanctuary was made in Falkreath. So that’s where Cicero is taking his poor mother.”

“Augh! I just came through Falkreath! I probably went right past the new place on my way here!” Renae pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes in frustration. “Several long, cold days, and freezing nights, wasted on the road!”

“A cold and lonely time, stretching out behind you.” Cicero said sympathetically, “But Cicero is grateful, so very grateful, for Renae’s detour. How long might Cicero have languished in the road waiting for aid?”

Renae dropped her hands and gave him a small smile. “I guess you’re right.”

“And in any case, a new door means Renae’s outdated passwords would be of no use to her even if she had found the door, hmm?” The jester asked wisely.

“Bleh. Unfortunately true. In a change of topic, who gets first watch?”

“Cicero shall take first,” came the decisive reply. “He is a bit of an insomniac at the best of times.”

“I can’t argue with that logic.” Then something else struck the Breton. “Wait, you said you’re transporting your mother…” Renae abruptly blanched, “Cicero, where were you before you went to Dawnstar?”

“Why, Cyrodiil.”

“Cyrodiil,” Renae whimpered, “Cicero... Are you saying that you’re transporting the Night Mother? Was her crypt destroyed?”

“Yes! Yes to both questions, clever Renae!” Cicero’s head nodded so enthusiastically that the bells on Cicero’s hat jangled.

 _By Sithis’ will, I am so glad I stopped to help!_ “Well!” she said out loud, “Since we’re both going the same way, why don’t we just leave together? We’ll be better as a team, and I do need the new password.”

“Cicero would love sweet Renae’s company during the dark, silent nights,” the jester beamed at her. “The silence and loneliness has been… grating.” He made a face, then smiled again, “And what’s more, a fellow Sister with her shiny, sharp blades would be a welcome help in case bandits should think to trouble us.”

“Ah, actually, that’s not likely to be too much of a problem,” she grinned, thinking back to the line of dead bodies that had stretched out behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

The pair encountered only one roaming group of bandits on the way back. Cicero laughed with delight as he sprang from the seat of the carriage with the grace of an acrobat, his black blade going to work with deadly skill.

Renae followed suit, striking swiftly with her daggers; causing deep wounds which bled freely, but weren’t particularly lethal in themselves. Her initial focus was in making sure that the bandits she attacked wouldn’t be able to handle their weapons. She struck, and kept going. The wounds she inflicted were plenty effective at delivering her poisons to the bloodstream.

The two soon stood under the overcast sky, surrounded by blood and death, barely even breathing hard from their exertion.

Cicero gave her a respectfully appraising look. “Sweet Renae has a deadly grace that her gentle eyes hide.”

Renae grinned. “All the better to slip close and deliver a sharp kiss goodnight.”

“Oh yes! Yes, very good! Some say the best assassin is the one her victim least suspects.”

Renae nodded. Then muttered in disgust, “Urgh, I need to wash up.”

“Renae has a problem with blood?” Cicero asked, seemingly caught between puzzlement and disbelief.

“Not the way you think.” She waved her hand as though to dispel his misgivings. “Fresh blood is easy to handle. But once it goes tacky, it becomes a real nuisance to clean it out of hair and armor. Worse is when you don’t get it all out and your armor begins to smell.”

“Ahh.” Cicero nodded understandingly. “Smelly assassins cannot creep up upon unsuspecting victims. The day is still young. We can make use of the water and dry out in the sun, if Renae wishes.” He gestured to a small trickle of water nearby.

She grimaced but conceded; the trickle wasn’t on any of her maps, which could only mean that it was primarily a temporary run of ice melt, and not too likely to have warmed up all that much during the trip down the craggy rocks.

Skyrim’s climate sucks! Renae decided as she bit back a shriek as the icy touch of water chilled her to the bone, I already miss Hammerfell. The thought was brief but morose.

She traded with Cicero, keeping watch for trouble as the jester moved to rinse his own clothes off. “I-If- If th-the Void is as c-c-cold as that stream, I m-may walk away from S-Sithis ri-right here, ri-right n-now,” she warned him.

The man looked dubious until he stuck a few fingers in the stream. Then his eyes widened and he didn't bother to bite back the yelp. He gave her a look of horror, realizing that he would have to make do, the way she had.

“Cicero misses the warm streams of Cyrodiil!” The man wailed as the water hit his skin and he frantically scrubbed at his clothes. “P-Perhaps sw-sweet, k-kindly Renae-would p-permit a sm-sm-small d-delay in our t-tr-travels?” The Imperial sounded desperately hopeful in a way that was easy to hear in spite of the chattering teeth and violent shaking his body was doing.

Renae looked around quickly to get her bearings, “B-Bloated Man's Gr-Grotto. We can s-spend an early n-night there.”

The pair managed to get the horses to pick up the pace slightly, and soon had a fire going inside, where the pair stripped their icy, wet clothes off without a hint of modesty and grabbed their spares, too focused on getting warm to admire any views. The carts were left outside, and horses had come inside with only a little creative maneuvering. Renae had unpacked her camp essentials, and had helped Cicero bring the Night Mother’s coffin inside. There was plenty of plant life for the horses to browse on, and the grotto was sheltered from the winds and most weather.

“How does a Breton raised by Imperials come to join the Dark Brotherhood?” Cicero asked, once they had hot food inside them and a lazy feeling had them both blinking sleepily into the flames.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing too terribly dramatic. No terrible loss of family, or tragic heroism like you hear in the tales. I was basically raised on alchemy from a very young age. My adopted parents hoped I could become a shopkeeper.” She smiled a bit sarcastically. “Learning poisons and how to counteract them turned out to be my calling. My teacher turned out to be a contact for the Dark Brotherhood, and one evening someone broke into the shop in search of the Jarrin Root my mentor was growing.” She sat back, eyes distant at the memory. “I gave him the Jarrin Root all right; I had taken to coating my daggers with the distilled extract in secret.”

Cicero sketched a bow from where he was sitting, a smile of approval on his lips, eyes glittering with the imagined effects from her first kiss of the poisoned blade into her first victim.

“It became clear pretty quickly that I felt no remorse for killing the would-be thief-or-murderer. Apparently the one who tried to get the Jarrin Root wasn't of the Brotherhood, but my creativity with the poison and my blades perked the interest of the Chapter nonetheless. I did a few small poisoning jobs for them, and was soon invited to be a full member.”

Renae lay back and gazed up at the moons, three quarters full. Terrific. This is going to complicate things. I’ll need to leave camp tomorrow night.

Cicero grunted into the silence. “Does Renae’s adopted family know?”

“Hngh. No. I left home for ‘additional training.’ A few months of letters of me detailing the things I was learning and the success I was making for myself…” Renae trailed off briefly, then swallowed and continued, “And then they received a letter detailing my death at the hands of a bunch of bandits attacking some far off town where I was learning some obscure mixture or other. By then, I was known on the job as Kriivah… which means “murder” in the dragon tongue.”

“Oh good! Very good. Cicero likes Renae’s nickname.” He clapped his hands lightly.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “I guess we should get into the habit of calling me Kriivah, from here on out.”

“Kriivah,” Cicero said, as though tasting the word. He nodded, “Cicero will remember. Cicero will take first watch again.”


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, the pair made a light breakfast and then led the horses through the tunnel back to the main road.

A bellow was the only warning they got before a massive shadow engulfed them from above and a dragon landed with a crash on the road.

The horses were, perhaps, the smartest of the group. Uttering screaming whinnies of terror, both whirled and bolted straight back into Bloated Man's Grotto.

Renae swore and fired two arrows into the dragon's face before it took to the air again. As it made a broad turn in the sky, Kriivah swore again: this time in frustration. The arrows had done nothing but bounce off the thing's scales.

Cicero had one ebony dagger as his weapon. She had her two daggers and about thirty arrows. Her bottles of poison were buried at the bottom of her cart, so it wasn't like she could chuck a bottle of distilled Jarrin Root down its throat. She would have to make her poisoned arrows count, and somehow penetrate, since she was the only one capable of bringing the damn thing to the ground.

As the beast began to dive, Kriivah took aim.

The mouth opened and bellowed "YOL!" as a blaze of red flame filled its mouth.

_Inhale, find focus._

"TOOR SHUL!"

_Release._

The arrow vanished into the blaze, and the Breton dove to the side and rolled as a line of flames set the grass on fire where she had been standing. The dragon made a sharp barking noise that sounded like a pained cough. It wobbled in the air, gave another pained cough and then labored up into the sky once more.

Cicero was laughing like a… well… like a madman, and twirling his dagger. "Dragon, dragon, little lizard. Come dance with Cicero so he may claim your gizzard!"

Kriivah snickered a little at the terrible rhyme.  _At least he's having fun._

The dragon growled and turned back for another pass.

_Okay. The mouth was a painful spot, if not completely vulnerable... Draw, take aim, wait._  The mouth opened as it lined up with the two humans and plunged toward them.  _Release._  This time, the arrow found its mark in the roof of the dragon's mouth before it could summon the fire breath once more.

The beast uttered a Daedra awful scream and plummeted to the ground, struck hard, and ploughed a furrow into the earth. Renae didn't have the chance to dodge. She could only send a swift prayer to Sithis, bring her daggers up and then the beast slammed into her and she went down, then was dragged beneath the inexorable weight.

She was only dimly aware of Cicero shouting her name, and of a heavy, slick, wetness that covered her from head to mid-torso, and the agonizing pain that roared through her body. The dragon gave a final cry; more of a wet gurgling sound; and then the massive head and neck collapsed fully on top of the Breton.

It could have been seconds, or several eternities, but the heavy weight on top of her was abruptly heaved off. Her daggers were still clenched in her hands, by some miracle, and there was a wet squelching sound as her poisoned daggers came free of the dragon's throat. A hot rush of dragon blood drooled heavily from the wounds, splattering in a perfect arc across the ground as the beast's head was tossed aside.

Cicero was babbling frantically, trying to get her to loosen her death grip on the blades so he could check on her injuries.

It took several seconds of concentration before she was able to focus enough through the pain in order to unclench her hands. The daggers landed with more of a wet 'splack' in the pool of dragon blood, than a clatter onto the earth.

She took a slightly deeper breath, and her vision went white with pain, then blood red, then black. The last thing she heard was her own scream, strangled down to a moaning whimper, before darkness took her completely.

.

Cicero had never experienced fear like this before. For that matter, he had never felt so useless. The dragon hadn't been the slightest bit interested in him despite his taunts. It's eyes had all been for precious, kindly Kriivah.

And it had been Kriivah who had taken it down, and it had been Kriivah who had gone down beneath its weight.

The gentle tide that had filled him had drained almost instantly, leaving the pain of his broken psyche all the sharper for its absence. The panic that had filled him and the desperation to see if she was still alive had been so out of character for him at the time. Yet, it had consumed everything.

He had carried her limp, bloody body back into the grotto. Had simply walked straight into the chilly pool below the waterfall. Had immersed her up to her chin and washed her and watched the tide of blood flow away from her small body into the water. Never before had blood seemed so… wrong.

She was so light! So delicate in his arms. He had seen how lithe and graceful and deadly she was in battle. Had seen the confident strength in her eyes. It had been so easy to assume that she was a match for all comers that it hadn't occurred to him to notice that she was smaller than even Cicero's wiry frame.

Cleaning and bandaging her had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. Thank Sithis that a precious trickle of that lukewarm energy had returned to his mind while he cared for her.

It seemed that she was indeed the source… and both her life and that sweet tide had almost been extinguished.

As he anxiously went to work making food for the pair of them, Cicero realized that he would have to somehow lure her close and keep her near if he wanted the support of that strange energy. But how? As a Sister, she would have to leave on contracts.

Was it enough to make sure she wanted to come back? Would distance sever the flow or just lessen it? And what exactly was this tide, anyway?


	7. Chapter 7

It hurt. Everything hurt. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious, but as the world slowly came back to her, she sensed they were back in Bloated Man’s Grotto. Her wolf was silent within her, dazed and only semi conscious.

Without moving an inch, she took stock of the situation. One arm had been bound immobile. Bandages were wound tight around her torso, and the pain from every breath told her that she had either cracked or broken some ribs. Her legs felt in surprisingly good condition, other than what felt like surface scrapes from being dragged across the ground.

Opening her eyes cautiously and looking around, she found that she was clean, and dressed in one of the sets of clothes she had had packed in her carriage. By the padding at her back, and her own familiar scent surrounding her, she was laying on her own bedroll.

Cicero was humming a tune that she didn't recognize… if it were actually a tune at all… and stirring a pot over the fire.

_Why do I still hurt? My healing abilities should have taken care of all this._ Her answer was a sharp cramp of hunger. Kriivah groaned softly.

In an instant, Cicero was at her side. “R-Renae? Is Ren--- Kriivah conscious?” he asked anxiously. “Cicero begs her not to move!” He added as she tried to sit up and bit her lip against the urge to scream and pass out again. “Kriivah is injured! Gravely injured by the giant lizard. She was bleeding from the mouth, but there were no cuts there.”

_Ah. That explains it. My body used up its energy repairing my internal injuries._ “I need food,” Kriivah’s voice sounded thready and breathless even to her, “My… my body needs fuel to heal my injuries.”

“Then Kriivah will eat, Cicero will make sure of it,” the jester said solemnly, placing a hand with infinite care against her collarbone, “but only if Kriivah stops trying to move.”

“I still need to sit up,” she replied stubbornly. “If I’m going to be an invalid, I at least want to take my meals sitting upright.” When he hesitated and seemed ready to argue, she added, “I’ll also be less likely to choke on it.”

There was a pause, and then Cicero exhaled in exasperation. “Cicero will get Kriivah upright. Just let him do the work.”

The man carefully slid his hands under her and slowly, tenderly, lifted her into a sitting position. It hurt… a lot… but less than it would if she had exerted her muscles. Biting back a cry of pain as her vision filled with oddly hypnotic clouds of darkness, Kriivah focused solely on breathing in a way that wouldn’t hurt her ribs.

Cicero soon had her sitting somewhat upright, though that was only achieved by leaning her against a rock.

“Where does an assassin learn such gentleness?” She asked, focusing on faintly teasing him as a distraction once she was able to breathe easily again past the pain.

Cicero gave a small chuckle, “Cicero has been tending the Night Mother for years. A gentle hand becomes second nature to a Keeper. Tending to Kriivah’s injuries was child’s play.” He filled a bowl to the brim with stew and brought it to her with a faintly apologetic look, “Cicero is not as good a cook as Kriivah is.”

“It tastes heavenly,” was her fervent reply as he helped her lift the bowl to her mouth and she downed the food as fast as she dared despite the heat.

The man blushed slightly.

The Breton sighed with pleasure as her stomach turned ravenously on the food that poured into it. “More please.”

Cicero raised his eyebrows but did not comment as she devoured the lion’s share of the meal he had made. She eventually slowed down, then finally shook her head at him when he prepared the next bowl.

“Cicero wonders where… small Kriivah is putting it all,” he finally commented diffidently, clearly trying not to offend her. It was sweet, and rather endearing.

“Ahh, right. You’re safe to tell.” Kriivah sat back with a sigh of contentment as she felt her body making short work of the food, and of the healing necessary to bring her back to full strength. “I’m a werewolf, with a werewolf’s ability to heal. Of course that comes with a werewolf’s ability to eat a lot, and use it quickly.”

Kriivah wasn’t sure what the look on Cicero’s face meant. It was a very strange combination of realization, triumph and puzzled inquiry.

After a moment she continued, “The problem was, I was very badly hurt, and I had eaten only a light breakfast. The fuel for healing has to come from somewhere.”

Cicero tilted his head slightly, thinking. “Tonight is the full moon. Kriivah will change?”

“I will. The transformation will help finish off the healing.”

The jester was silent for a long moment then, “Will Kriivah be… in control?”

“Not me, my wolf,” she corrected, then hastened to reassure him. “We won’t attack you as long as you return the favor.”

Another silence. “Kriivah should have told Cicero sooner. We could have eaten more this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Cicero. I’m so used to hiding it that avoiding talking about it is as much a part of my life as turning furry is,” Kriivah explained apologetically. “People tend to… well... people tend to do more than just run away screaming. Many grab the nearest weapon and try to serve my head on a platter.”

The jester nodded. “Cicero can understand the reasoning. Another question.” Cicero’s arms were crossed, and he put on a slightly over-the-top stern scowl. “How exactly did Kriivah plan to avoid being spotted?”

Kriivah shrugged, and then winced at the motion, “When I’m alone, I usually leave camp and roam around, chasing deer and rabbits all night. After joining you...” She let out a breath. “I planned to take the first watch this time around, and then slip away from camp while you slept. I would have just played ‘guard dog’ until the moon set. I’ve done it so many times that I don’t even think anymore about telling someone.”

“Cicero is an insomniac,” he reminded her, leaning closer. “Cicero would have seen Kriivah slip away, and would have followed.”

The Breton closed her eyes and sighed. “Damn. I forgot that. Well, we wouldn’t have attacked you if you had snuck out and spotted us.”

“Cicero is glad to hear it,” his voice was dry.

“Heh. We probably would have hesitated a little at coming back, though," a wry smirk lifted the corners of her mouth.

“Cicero would not have attacked you.” His voice was uncomfortably close allofasudden, and her eyes popped open when she felt fingertips capture her chin. He lifted her face lightly toward his, meeting her green eyes with his own golden brown gaze. “But Kriivah should face some punishment for not telling Cicero.”

Her wolf gave an uneasy growl behind her eyes. Kriivah raised a single eyebrow. “I think I’ve taken about all the punishment I am willing to take, thank you very much.”

He grinned, “Oh no, no, no. This is a bit different. Kriivah’s punishment is to shift in front of Cicero.”

Her wolf went silent and tilted her head in puzzled inquiry. The Breton’s other eyebrow hiked up to join the first. “That’s it? Are you serious?”

“Quite.” He gave her another full grin. “The likelihood that Kriivah will be removing her clothes is entirely coincidental, I assure you.”

The Breton burst out laughing, then winced in pain. “Ow! Horse’s arse, don’t make me laugh before I’m healed! I should count that as my penalty!”

An apologetic look crossed his face and he released her chin and instead gently took her hand, “Cicero is sorry. He did not mean to cause Kriivah more pain.”

“I know.” She slowly relaxed, her breathing easing as the pain faded, “I am a werewolf though. Being naked doesn't affect me the way it does other women. I won’t feel vulnerable, nor will I really feel like it's a punishment to let you see me naked. Fair warning.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth, “Then Cicero will simply consider the view to be a small perk. In truth, what he wants is to see the transformation, so he can identify her in wolf form, should the need arise.”

Amusement rolled through her, though this time she managed to refrain from laughing. So this so-called punishment was really some sort of silly, oblique way of satisfying his curiosity? A one in a lifetime opportunity to see a werewolf up close while remaining safe, perhaps?

Cicero pasted on another over-the-top scowl. “That is Kriivah’s penalty. Cicero does not recommend trying to escape it.”

Her eyes danced with amusement. For all his menacing words, she felt no threat from them. “Well, um, okay then. I can’t stay long though. I need to be mobile. I will have too much energy to laze around the fire. And I’ll be very hungry again.” _If that’s his idea of ‘punishment,’ I wonder what kind of secondary punishment he’d have in store for me if I had refused._

Cicero gave her a small nod, before settling down to eat the last bowl of food.

Kriivah settled back, simply basking in the fact that most of the pain had faded and didn’t flare up unless she moved too much. She was also thankful that her healing ability had finally progressed to the point that breathing no longer made sweat break out on her forehead. By tonight, she would be mostly healed.

The closer night came, the more antsy she got. With Cicero’s help, she got the bandages off, as well as the sling her arm had been bound into. She rubbed her arms and legs and was pleased to see the scabs from her lesser wounds crumble away to nothing.

Kriivah carefully undid her braid, coiling the spiked chain for later use. She slid out of her clothes without hesitation, having long ago forsaken modesty, but glanced Cicero’s way. His expression was one of approval as his gaze took her in, but mostly, what she saw was curiosity.

The moon lifted above the mountains, and as the light spilled over her, the changes came. As her flesh changed shape and bones slid into new positions and new shapes, she gasped and doubled over as the changing transformed the remaining damaged tissue into healthy flesh. It did wonders, but by the Divines it **hurt**!

Finally she rose to her full height, threw back her head and uttered an echoing howl. The wolf stepped to the forefront.

Hearing enthusiastic clapping, the wolf turned to find Cicero on his feet, a wide grin on his face.

He approached her slowly, with the wary respect one predator usually gives to another. “May Cicero touch?” His voice was pitched much lower than usual, perhaps some instinctive part of his mind advising him that excitable behavior was ill advised.

The moon was calling to her, but she nodded.

He tugged off one of his gloves and gently stroked the wolf’s broad head, feeling the fur there. He gave a small laugh, fluffing and teasing the luxurious mane of fur on her neck. “Such soft fluffy wuffy foofly fur on da big fwuffy wolfie,” Cicero giggled.

_Oh my gods is he **baby talking** a werewolf while playing with her fur?!_ Kriivah asked the wolf on amused annoyance.

_Yes._ Kriivah’s wolf sounded just as amused as the Breton. She snorted and shook off, giving him a mildly annoyed look for mussing up her fur.

He grinned, unrepentant, before gently taking one of her clawed paws and staring at it in wonder.

She tolerated this with silent dignity for a few moments, then tugged free with a soft ‘whuff.’ She turned and loped out of the grotto and into the wide open plain beyond.

She paused only to give the dragon’s corpse a brief sniff. Neither had tasted dragon meat before, but as they eyed the large carcass, not even the wolf’s hunger turned it into a potential meal. After a moment, the wolf turned away, licking her chops and envisioning the taste of elk. Now that was a meal!


	8. Chapter 8

Cicero had never seen a creature as beautiful as Kriivah. Breton or werewolf, it didn't matter.

The woman seemed so pure, so innocent, so sweet. Her green eyes always held a smile that matched her lips. She moved with a grace that went beyond acrobatic and slipped straight into a predatory fluidity that most humans couldn’t match. The gleam of her blades dazzled the eyes and every strike was like poetry, leaving behind a swift, silent death in their wake.

And her werewolf form? He had never seen the like. Most werewolves were a grey or black, and a slightly hunched over humanoid shape. The head was that of a wolf, with dark brown eyes. In her case, Kriivah’s pale skin became a snowy white underbelly, her red hair transforming into a cloak pattern of red fur down her back and sides. Her eyes stayed the same brilliant green. Instead of clawed hands, she had what looked like modified paws.

Even in her beastial form, she was not made for the lurching charge, but for a smooth, loping gait that made her flow like a liquid over the ground. She was more wolf than Breton; a tireless killing machine with just enough humanity left to make her larger and more versatile than a normal wolf.

He looked at his hands, noting a few strands of red fur twined between them. Most werewolves smelled of unclean beast: a base, primitive smell of uncontrolled savagery and something that could benefit from several vigorous scrubbings with soap. Kriivah smelled of clean fur, something slightly musky and predatory, and a heady rush of danger. He found it quite preferable to the usual stench of werewolf.

Her distant hunting howl echoed back to him through the entrance of the grotto, and he smiled. Someone, or something was going to die tonight.

He fell asleep, imagining her claws and teeth tearing through flesh.

.

Kriivah awakened to the warmth of a human at her side. Well, more than at her side… Cicero had her tucked against his chest, both arms around her middle, and if the movement of her now unbraided hair was any indication, was breathing slowly and deeply against her neck.

Kriivah’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember how she had ended up in Cicero’s bedroll. The healing that came with shifting had left her ravenous, and she had quickly chased down and devoured a deer. It had taken half the night to eat it all, but eventually the bones had been picked clean. Then she had run around the plains; exploring, sniffing, running off energy throughout the night; before returning to their camp as the moon set. Following her own scent trail back had been unnecessary: the soft double pulse had begun as soon as she turned toward the grotto, and called her more accurately than anything else. Then… Then she had come back to find Cicero asleep… And then…

And then she had laid down next to him and sunk into the sleep that always preceded changing back. It was very unusual for her to seek out a human to transform next to. Returning to human form was the one time she was ever truly vulnerable; she had never trusted anyone like this.

And yet, she distinctly remembered the wolf seeking him out… It certainly wasn’t because he was a Brother. Her Hammerfell siblings had never received that much trust. Keeper status was respected, but not trusted. Not that way, anyway. Was it was because he was Crow?

_Best guess, for now._

As for her current position, he must have awakened, saw her lying naked, and had drawn her in under the blankets with him. Now he was holding her, tucking her close against his own body heat against the chill of the night. It was a sweet gesture, and she couldn’t help but smile a little.

_Right, and the fact that he’s male and you’re a naked woman totally has nothing to do with you being pressed against him._ Kriivah suppressed a laugh at her own sarcasm. _Not that it matters. When you run around naked for an entire night, on all fours no less, being in a state of undress around someone else doesn’t really matter all that much._

Kriivah tried to gently dislodge his arms, only to have him make a sleepy sound of complaint and tighten his hold on her. _Great. The man thinks I’m a cuddle toy._ “Cicero… Cicero, wake up.”

Cicero took a deep breath and slowly began to stir. He made a sleepy, satisfied sound in her ear as he began to throw off the veil of sleep.

“Sleep well?” Kriivah asked with mild amusement.

“Better than Cicero has slept in a long while,” came the cheeky murmur, and he nuzzled into her neck lightly.

“Mmm,” Kriivah hoped that sounded more sleepy than sexual, though Cicero’s nuzzle had sent a rush of heat straight through her middle. “Thank you for bringing me under the covers, but I don't notice the cold much anymore. My beast blood runs hot.”

“Cicero got quite a view of exactly how **hot** Kriivah is.”

Kriivah had just enough time for her eyes to widen in surprise and then the jester shifted slightly. He leaned in, touched his lips lightly to her cheek, and then slid back before she could react.

“A little offer for the future, should Kriivah be interested,” He slid out from under the covers, regretfully still fully clothed. “Kriivah should probably get dressed. The sanctuary is still a full day and a half away.”

_Son of a sleever; that line has never worked on me before._ Kriivah complained silently, feeling her face burning. _Why does it have an effect when he says it?_

_He is Crow,_ her wolf said. _We were meant to find each other. We will be Pack and Murder to one another. We will learn, and balance. I will begin working on that._

There was a pause.

_You hesitate._ Kriivah noted.

_Yes. He is… badly damaged. He needs us more than he knows. And there is something inside of him. Something… else. Something that should not be there. I haven’t figured out what it is. It camouflages itself. Teach him about me, it will help open him up to me, and I can find this... thing._

Kriivah rose and took care of necessary morning tasks. _I guess today is as good a time as any._

Shaking her head, and wondering how to broach the subject, she got dressed in her fur lined armor, which had apparently been thoroughly cleaned and dried after being bathed in dragon blood. She flashed him a smile of gratitude and received a wink in return as she settled it into place.

Cicero prepared breakfast, and by unspoken agreement, they ate heartily; just in case she needed to heal herself in another accident.

Edging the horses past the dragon’s now cold and stiff corpse was a study in patience for the very unhappy horses. But once it was clear they were leaving it behind, the horses settled down.

Turning south into Falkreath Hold, the weather turned from chilly and bright… to chilly and drippy. Kriivah muttered and pulled a hood over her her head. For several hours, they plodded through the increasingly miserable weather. Thunder rumbled in the distance, slowly edging closer like a stalking predator.

Darkness fell early behind the heavy clouds and they had to stop for the night. They made camp fairly close to Falkreath Watchtower, on the side farthest from Shriekwind Bastion. Kriivah could smell the stench of vampires even this far away, and didn't want anything to do with a fortress full of them.

“Can humble Cicero ask a personal question?” The Imperial asked as they put away the night’s dishes.

Kriivah blinked, then sat back solemnly. “You may ask, but I may choose not to answer.”

The Imperial nodded then said, “Kriivah’s wolf looks very different from other werewolves. How did it happen?”

“Ah.” Kriivah smiled a little. “My alchemy teacher was a Bosmer. With such a connection to plants and their uses, my knowledge was extensive by the time we finished. I was on my formal assessment when I was attacked and bitten by a werewolf. I was infected. We --my teacher and I-- knew there was nothing we could do to prevent it. Hircine would ensure it. But my teacher knew the ways of the wild, and that the best way to thwart a daedric prince is to outsmart him. He called upon the trickster god Baan Dar.”

Cicero’s brow furrowed. “Cicero is not familiar with this god.”

“He’s the patron of cleverness and desperate genius, and he’s best known for last minute plans that always upset the most carefully laid plans of evil people. He’s well known to the Bosmer and Khajiit.” Kriivah explained.

Understanding dawned on the jester’s face. “And after getting infected, who better to call than the one who embodies ‘desperate genius?’ ” he laughed, clapping his hands.

Kriivah grinned. “Who indeed? Baan Dar found the idea of thwarting Hircine’s perceived elite to be incredibly funny. He called upon the spirit of the wolf, and I received one of her children to meld with my own soul.”

Confusion crossed Cicero’s face once more. “How does one thwart becoming a werewolf by becoming a werewolf?”

“Hircine’s idea of werewolf is centered around pure hunting and killing instinct. It does not recognize friends, nor does it understand balance.” The Breton explained; “With the soul of a **real** wolf joining in mine, the twisted form became more natural, more designed toward harmony of human and beast. I was able to be within striking distance of you, and not attack. I recognized you as… ‘not prey,’ despite the full moon calling me, and my own hunger driving me to hunt.”

“Cicero is very grateful to your Bosmer teacher and to Baan Dar for their cleverness,”  the man said soberly.

Kriivah smiled a little, deciding to take the next step. “It’s very important for you to understand something, though… I’m not just a Breton woman. I’m also a wolf. We’ve learned to balance our wants and needs. We’ve also learned how to do this subtly, without giving ourselves away.”

She worried her lower lip thoughtfully, trying to put her thoughts in order, then said, “Cicero, it’s very important that you understand this… I look human. I even mostly act human. This is a lie. You cannot speak to one without also speaking to the other. Right now, you speak to the woman, and the wolf is behind her eyes. Last night, you spoke to the wolf, with the woman behind her eyes. Trying to woo only the woman is pointless, because the wolf has always rejected every man who tries. The wolf is not a loyal hound to be domesticated by a pat on the head and a few sweet words. She sees things… differently. You can be prey, or ‘not prey.’ If you are ‘not prey,’ you are either tolerated, or a packmate, or an enemy.”

The wolf huffed in her mind. _He is Crow. He is unique. He gets a special place._

_I know, but he must accept us as Wolf. Wolf and Crow must know one another’s strengths and weaknesses. He must learn and understand Wolf’s ways, as we must learn and understand Crow’s,_ Kriivah replied.

Cicero rested his chin on his hand, staring into the flames thoughtfully. “So, if Cicero would like to have a relationship with Kriivah, he must also be a packmate to the wolf? How would he become one?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose wearily. “Everyone in Hammerfell was merely tolerated. They treated me as an assassin only. My wolf was seen as little more than an extension of me… like a dagger. Or a shape that I took on, like a cloak over the real, human, me. She is not. She is aware. She watches, hears and scents just about everything. She influences me as much as I influence her. She is a separate soul, and has her own expectations of how a packmate should behave.”

“Hmm. Cicero will think on it,” he murmured, half to himself. He was silent for the rest of the night.

Kriivah sighed to herself as she climbed into her bedroll. They were loners; had been for many, many years. Her wolf saw the Crow in Cicero, and Kriivah had to admit that she did too. But the concept of relaxing enough to allow someone to get emotionally close to her was foreign to the Breton.

It didn’t help that Kriivah and her wolf were also Silencers.

As a highly experienced, personal assassin to one of the members of the Black Hand in Hammerfell, Kriivah had qualified as a member of the Black Hand itself, but her existence as a Silencer was kept a secret from the rest of the Brotherhood. She had been considered above the laws of the Dark Brotherhood, and largely allowed to operate as she saw fit. However, the Tenets were a part of her and she obeyed them strictly unless directly ordered otherwise… which was rarely.

She knew her previous rank was technically gone. The Purification of the Hammerfell chapter had stripped her of everything from the past. And yet, that same deadly, invisible person still walked the world… still operated under the ideas that had guided her. They were still Silencers. They walked alone, as always; the only difference was that now they answering to no one but Sithis. The Keeper’s presence was going to alter the balance yet again.

Not entirely unwelcome, but not entirely easy either.


	9. Chapter 9

Cicero glanced at the lithe form that nestled so contentedly into her bedroll. A Sister, so far out here and so kind! So kind to poor, humble, mad Cicero!

Something moved.

Cicero was on his feet in an instant, ebony dagger in his hand. He opened his mouth to rouse Kriivah, when he realized that the movement wasn’t out in the dark.

It wasn’t in the real world. It was… inside Cicero’s head! _Oh Night Mother! Please, no more madness! Cicero already has enough with the laughter!_

The Imperial wanted to put his face in his hands and weep.

The presence was unseen, and only barely sensed, like being blindfolded in a room and just barely hearing the movement of air when the unseen presence breathed.

The Jester laughed tauntingly in his head. _“Why Cicero, what’s wrong? Are you going mad? Hee hee hee! Hearing things no one else does?”_

Movement. A sudden brush of something luxurious and thick against his thoughts. Like fur. A presence, warm and solid at his back. Not touching, no; merely close.

It was such a strong feeling that Cicero turned, but the night was dark and still.

Was he descending into further madness? His instincts told him no, that something had come. Something else. Something other. But also something warm and real.

_“Whatever are you looking for, dear, deadly Cicero? I’m right here.”_ Cicero cringed as The Jester stood before him, outlined in a sickly looking green glow. His voice echoed in the spaces where Cicero felt weakest; most vulnerable. _“I’m here. I will always be here. I’m your gift from the Night Mother, remember? You wouldn’t dare deny me, would you? Insult dear Mother?”_

His face was split into a maniacal grin, daring the Imperial to insult his matron.

There was a disgusted snort. Too real. Too solid. But it was not Cicero who did the snorting. And it did not echo the way that The Jester did. A huff of breath, so real that he could have sworn he felt it caress his left cheek.

The presence turned in his mind and began moving, the solidity that hovered behind him began to fade. Leaving. It had come, silent as the Void. Now it was leaving the same way. Cicero did not want it to go. He turned and reached helplessly into the dark of the night, still seeing nothing.

“Wait!” He pleaded in a ragged whisper, “Don’t go!”

_“Where are you looking?”_ The Jester seemed annoyed. _“And who are you talking to? There is no one but us.”_

There was a pause from the presence. Then something in Cicero’s mind was… nudged. Something that was part of Cicero shifted. Slid. Settled with a feeling of finality. Something that had been raw and gaping was filled. And whatever it was, it was supposed to be there. He felt a dull feel-good ache, like he had stretched a cramping muscle. A sense of relief trickled through him. Something painful and empty had been set right. It could begin to close over. It could begin healing.

Slowly, Cicero smiled. “You mean you cannot sense it?”

The Jester’s face twisted in annoyance. _“Sense what? I told you, there’s nothing here but us. You really are slipping deeper into madness, aren’t you?”_ He sneered.

Cicero felt the movement again, fading away into the lukewarm energy that filled his mind. But he no longer felt the sense of desperation. It had come, and it would come again. The feeling that it was not gone, not entirely, dangled as a silent promise in the back of his thoughts.

Cicero looked at The Jester, and smiled. It was neither pleasant, nor reassuring. “Perhaps it is not Cicero who is slipping into madness. Perhaps, it is you. Can madness truly go mad? It will be interesting to see how it plays out.”

Something flickered across The Jester’s face. Fear? It was gone swiftly, replaced by fury. _“Do not play games with me, assassin. The Night Mother will never speak to you. You are not the Listener. If you imagine for yourself a little lie about our dark matron whispering sweet nothings to you, I will destroy it with great pleasure. There’s no part of you that can hide such delusions from me.”_

The Jester vanished. Cicero waited for the glittering, giggling madness to grow in his mind. It did not. Instead, the slow, gentle tide of lukewarm energy continued its steady path around him, its surface unruffled by whatever lurked within its depths.


	10. Chapter 10

They had been on the road for hours.  Lunch had basically been a quick pause to distribute the food, and then return to the driver’s seats to eat on the go. 

Finally Cicero waved back to her, and pointed to a dirt path that parted from the paved road, and swung in a U shape back the way they had come. There, nestled in a small hollow, recessed in stone, was a Black Door. Only when they were within the small hollow could she hear the familiar  and otherworldly humming that Dark Brotherhood Sanctuaries gave off. 

Kriivah let out a breath as she pulled her carriage next to his. “Ready to join our Brothers and Sisters?” 

“Quite ready.” Cicero sprang down and gave a full body stretch, arching backward until his hands touched the wet earth behind him. 

“Showoff.” Kriivah laughed, and sprang down as well. With her feet properly on the ground, she ran through a few stretches to limber herself up. She didn’t even try to match his flexibility; she knew she couldn’t match him. 

The pair approached the door, and it whispered, "What is the music of life?" 

“Silence, my brother," Cicero replied cheerfully, with a flourishing bow. 

“Welcome home," there was a creak, and the door opened of its own volition. 

Cicero bowed gallantly to Kriivah and gestured for her to enter before him. The pair made their way down the stairs within and came into a small foyer, where a Nord woman in red and black armor was leaning against a door jamb, eyeing them with mild interest. 

“Ah, at last! I see you found the place all right. Though we weren’t expecting two of you.” Her blue eyes were fixed solidly on Kriivah. “I am Astrid, leader of the Falkreath Sanctuary. Who are you?” 

The Breton introduced herself and explained why she was in Skyrim. “I met Cicero on the road.” She finally explained. 

Astrid’s cool blue eyes finally flicked away to rest on Cicero for the barest breath of time before settling back on Kriivah. “Very well. Welcome, both of you, to the Falkreath Sanctuary. Your new life begins here. You won't find a safer place in all of Skyrim." 

Despite the sweet words, spoken in an almost seductive tone of voice, Kriivah got the distinct impression that Astrid did not like the Breton’s arrival. There was a tightness to her mouth, and a challenging stare in her eyes. This was an alpha female; used to getting her way. Kriivah’s wolf bristled at the veiled hostility. 

“I’m sure you must be anxious to get to work.” Astrid continued, “I'm arranging a job, but need a bit more time. For now, unpack your carriage, then go see Nazir. He's got several smaller contracts.” The Nord woman’s eyes flicked to Cicero, “And now that the Night Mother has arrived, things around here are sure to get more interesting." 

As Astrid turned and walked unhurriedly away, Kriivah gave herself a tiny shake. _I’m in another predator’s territory, and I’m not welcome. I’m tolerated._ She sighed softly, _Nothing new there._

Astrid smelled of leather, ink, paper, and blood, and a strange combination of dominance, danger and the usual hint of instability than most assassins carried. There was also a faint scent on the woman; the scent of a canine. She wasn’t a werewolf, but someone close to her was. 

Kriivah bit her lower lip anxiously, then tried to put on a more cheerful expression, “Do you need help getting the Night Mother inside, Cicero?” 

“Ahh thank you, kindly Kriivah, but Cicero is quite capable of managing the Matron’s sarcophagus by himself. You just explore a bit, find a place, and start bringing in your delightful little collection.” He smiled and patted her shoulder lightly before turning to trot back up the stairs. 

Once she had explored a little and found a corner with a little space and an unoccupied bed, she set to work, bringing her things into the Sanctuary. Her cooking supplies and foodstuffs soon took over several shelves in the kitchen. Her knives brought a few approving whistles from her Brothers and Sisters, and when they found out she could cook, she found herself rising a little in everyone’s eyes, though there were a few good natured jibes about having to compete with someone named Nazir for ownership of the kitchen. 

Once the cover layer was in place, Kriivah brought in her vast collection of ingredients and her portable, custom built Alchemy Lab and arranged them near her bed. 

Babette, the vampire child, quickly became enamoured of the Breton when she spotted the Lab. The two were soon carrying sacks into the Sanctuary and discussing the pros and cons of using freshly picked Deathbell versus drying it and grinding it up into a fine powder. 

“I’ve never heard two people turn the discussion of poison into a completely nerdy and boring topic before,” a dry voice commented behind Kriivah. 

A Redguard was watching the pair arrange ingredients with amusement sparkling in his eyes. He was trying to look bored, but the corners of his mouth were twitching upward. 

“You’re welcome to join us!” Kriivah invited him cheerfully. “We can always move on to whether it’s better as the first or second ingredient.” 

Babette giggled. 

The Redguard shuddered comically. 

“I take it you’re Nazir?” Kriivah clasped the man’s hand warmly. 

“That I am. And you’re the unexpected newbie from Hammerfell.” 

“New to this Sanctuary, not to the Brotherhood,” the Breton chided, then sobered. “I would still be in Hammerfell if we hadn’t been betrayed. Only three of us escaped. Then we were hit by an ambush on the way to the border. I’m the only one who made it, and only then because I was more deadly than all five of my foes.” 

“I am… sorry to hear that.” the Redguard bowed his head slightly. “The loss of our Brothers and Sisters is always a catastrophe. More so when it empties the lands entirely of our presence.” 

“On the plus side, Sithis granted me the honor of sending our betrayer screaming into the Void.” The Breton gave a brief, feral smile, then cleared her throat and gave her head a small shake. “Anyway, Astrid said you'd have some work for me." 

Nazir accepted the change of topic from the morose to the morbid with a small nod. "I do. There are a few lingering contracts we haven't had the chance to complete just yet. And more, dribbling in from time to time. I'll assign them to you as they become available. To be completed at your leisure.” 

Kriivah nodded slowly, “It will be good to get back into the rhythm of things.” 

Nazir locked eyes with her, and she was interested to note that they were so dark a brown as to be almost black. “Let me give you a few pieces of advice,” he said, raising his index finger to mark the first point, "These aren't particularly glamorous assassinations. They’re considered somewhat lower in priority than most others we’ve gotten.”  A second finger joined the first. “They don't pay much, either. But they'll keep you busy.” 

The Breton’s eyebrows rose. It was true that the Dark Brotherhood’s power was waning, but even in Hammerfell, petty murders weren’t encouraged when contacting the group. The Brotherhood was considered professional, dangerous and expensive. Thus, no contacts were “low priority.” It occurred to Kriivah that something was… off in this Sanctuary. 

The third finger rose. “Just do them as you're able. There's no real time limit - the targets aren't going anywhere. You can turn each one in as it's completed, or wait and turn in the whole group when all the targets have been eliminated. Whichever works for you." 

The Breton nodded, putting her misgivings aside for now. “I’ll take the first set, check my poisons, and be on my way tomorrow morning.” 

 "Well then, let's get started. I've got three available right now.” He pulled out a sheaf of paper and perused it briefly before handing it over, “Your targets are the beggar Narfi, an ex-miller named Ennodius Papius, and Beitild, a mine boss. When you've completed all those, we'll see if I might have some more." 

Kriivah eyed the contacts and the details about them. The reasons for their deaths weren’t detailed, but then again, they rarely ever were. They were also scattered. 

Narfi was a Nord beggar living in the ruins of his family home on the other side of the river in Ivarstead. Papius lived just outside Anga's Mill, west of Windhelm. And Beitild was a Nord mine boss and the owner of Iron-Breaker Mine in Dawnstar. 

If she didn’t want to run out, then back, then out again, it was better to do them in one trip, but that meant she would need plan for a week long trip, and if she didn’t want to travel using the slow, and conspicuous, carriage, she would need to provision at Windhelm, Dawnstar and Ivarstead. Kriivah frowned thoughtfully and began to pack. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Cicero’s sleep had been light and restless for the long week that Kriivah had been gone.

The tide that had flowed through him had dwindled to a trickle with distance, leaving him anxious all the time. That trickle could snuff out at any time, and there was nothing Cicero could do about it. He had been there to help Kriivah when the dragon had attacked, but away, so far away on a job, she was alone without Cicero to help her.

The Jester was strongest then, and he was certain that he had well and truly irritated everyone with his antics. He had finally retreated to the Night Mother’s room to let his frustrations out in an exhaustively thorough cleaning of the room.

By the time the stone had been cleaned to a high polish, Cicero had been good for nothing but sleep. And sleep he had… until the slowly increasing trickle of Kriivah’s presence had awakened him by turning from a flow into a flood and the madness was washed back.

He was on his feet in an instant, stealthily moving through the Sanctuary until he spotted Kriivah moving out of her space with a bundle of clean clothing in her weary grasp.

Cicero had found some fascinating books on wolves. Their behaviors and social interactions had sparked some ideas that he was eager to try out. She had allowed him to draw her into his bedroll that first night, but that had been his choice; his territory, as it were.

_Lucky, lucky Cicero._ He chided himself. _You knew nothing about wolves when you did that, other than that they’re ugly and they bite and carry diseases. Your ignorance could have gotten you to truly serious trouble had she felt the slightest bit distrusting of you. You were warned that her wolf barely tolerated her brothers and sisters in Hammerfell. And you took the risk of touching her when she was most vulnerable… when her wolf was closest to the surface._

Cicero nodded to himself. He **_had_** been lucky indeed that Kriivah’s wolf was so tolerant of foolish human antics. But he was better armed now. Better able to make moves the wolf would more easily recognize. His next step was more risky; he was going to step into **her** territory now.

He moved quickly. Her bed was stripped of its musty linens, and fresh ones laid in their place. Furs were added to her bed to make it warmer, her pillows plumped to their most inviting.

A quick check showed that she was still in the middle of washing up, her slowness borne of exhaustion more than any feminine indulgence of a leisurely bath.

Next, he went to the kitchens; blessedly free of the Redguard but stocked with food a-plenty. Cicero snatched several items, cut them up, and added a generous portion of both cooked chicken breast and cooked beef, both chopped. Quick, simple fare, but easy to eat; easy to reduce to bite sized pieces. It would likely satisfy her until the morning.

Another check. She was drying off.

_Quick now, be there and gone, like any good assassin. Don’t be present when her wolf catches your scent in her area._

He placed the food on her bed, scrawled a quick note, and scampered off into the shadows to observe.

.

It was late evening when she staggered back into the Sanctuary. A week on the road. A week out on Skyrim’s cold wilderness. And for what? To kill a Sheogorath touched beggar and a recluse, both of whom were not only isolated, but pathetically easy to kill. Even Beltid, who was slightly more of a challenge, was dead over what appeared to be a marital falling out. They were all petty deaths. Unworthy contracts.

Kriivah didn’t want to seem whiny, petulant, or a snob, but these contracts should never have crossed the Dark Brotherhood’s notice. These were kills for cold blooded mercenaries, not highly trained assassins who came in the depths of the night to strike fear into the hearts of the survivors. The Dark Brotherhood was meant to be shadowy, stealthy, and dangerous. Those who called upon them did so out of a driving feeling of need, where said need pushed them beyond the boundaries of a healthy dose of fear. The Brotherhood had become nothing more than a group of murderous sellswords, and likely garnered the same level of respect.

Kriivah moved through the silent Sanctuary in a gait that was more of a plod than her usual soundless tread. It was late, she was tired, and she didn’t care if anyone was even up to see her. Likely the only one would be Babette, but the vampire girl seemed to be out feeding tonight.

Snagging some clean clothes, the Breton circled the perimeter of her tiny territory out of habit. Space claimed, she headed into the waterfall room for a quick wash. It would feel good to lie down in a bed that was hers, for all that she had only slept in it once. Her things were around it, their scents familiar. The tiny territory within the Sanctuary that was hers and hers alone comforted her wolf. She washed up, hemming and hawing between a wish to be thoroughly clean, and the call of her bed. She eventually decided that her hair could wait another day.

Returning to her bed, she froze at the edge of the invisible barrier that her wolf saw as the edge of her space. The communal scents of the walkways gave way to the spot that was wholly hers here. And the scent of someone else had intruded. She took a slow, deep breath.

Darkness, secrets and the tang of instability. Cicero. A plate of food awaited her, sliced expertly into bite sized pieces. A simple note, written in almost childlike scrawl.

“Welcome back.”

The Breton was surprised by the thoughtful gesture. The wolf was relieved that they didn’t need to hunt for something. But both were pleased.

When she crawled into bed, the sheets were clean. Cicero’s touch upon them did not disturb her wolf, having already laid at his side, and she fell asleep almost immediately.

.

Cicero crept back to Kriivah’s small area and smiled at the sight of her empty plate, and of her weary form lying in her bed.

She had accepted his small offer, and had not objected to his intrusion. To a human, what he had done was just a small kindness. To the wolf, he was offering to help provide prey and keeping her ‘den’ maintained. That held quite a bit more weight.

Hunting down a target was the jester’s bread and butter. What truly made him feel alive was that this time, his target was alert and prepared for all comers. So this would have to be a slow hunt. His plans hinged on a delicate touch to guide his prey into position. To catch a fellow assassin, he would have to outmaneuver her. The wolf was his first target.

And it looked as though the first foray into placating the wolf inside the Breton was a success.

As he crossed the invisible barrier that marked her territory, green eyes opened and locked on him. Cicero paused, noting that there was very little human in them; the slightly luminous green had filled her eyes, obliterating the whites. The woman slept. It was the wolf who was watching him now.

Half a heartbeat of silent, immobile alarm passed and he met those glowing eyes briefly. Then he let his gaze slide away and angled his body slightly away as well. _Just two predators crossing paths;_ his posture said, _everything is fine. No need to be hostile about it._

He took her empty plate and glanced toward the bed again. The wolf was still watching from within the Breton’s skin, but was calm. Hoping against hope that the wolf understood human gestures, he smiled mischievously, careful not to show teeth, and touched a finger to his lips.

To his relief and pleasure, the wolf that looked out of the Breton’s face smiled back, amused and mischievous, and gave him a tiny nod.

Cicero removed himself from her territory, and the green eyes closed again once he had crossed the border.

That had gone quite well. Better than he had expected. The wolf seemed to like him. Which was good. Very good. The hunt just might be a success.

Cicero giggled to himself, then frowned.

Foolish, foolish Brothers and Sisters of Hammerfell. How could they not see the hidden presence of the wolf? The Dark Brotherhood, of all people, should have been aware of hidden dangers and deadly killers in the shadows. It was clear to him that the Purification of the Sanctuary had been needed, and he was determined to succeed where they had failed.

He would continue to entice the wolf, and speak to her in a way she would recognize.


	12. Chapter 12

Kriivah woke early the next morning to the sound of someone approaching, their bare feet heavy and deliberate. She was awake instantly, free of the warm furs nearly as fast, and on her feet even while her eyes were in the process of opening, a low growl in her throat. Her wolf was just under her skin, sharply agitated by the rapid approach of a stranger whose scent she did not recognize.

“Well, well. You’re a quick little bunny. My beautiful wife has told me quite a bit about you.” The speaker was a large Nord male with long white hair and a matching beard. She did not recognize him, which meant he was not in the Sanctuary when she had originally arrived, and had only recently come back. He smelled like an unwashed dog; a fellow werewolf, but one far less fastidious than she.

Kriivah’s lip curled ever so slightly, in a subtle wolf warning, as he came right up to the edge of her territory and stared down at her from his superior height. “Well met... I think.” She didn’t bother to hide the dubious tone in her voice.

He sneered, his eyes raking over her smaller figure with contempt, “I’ll give you a week before you end up dead in a ditch, little niblet.” And then he stepped across the invisible barrier into her space. “If I were you, I’d watch my tone, lest someone decides to cut even that week short--”

The Breton snarled, and there was nothing human about it. Her hand lashed out, seized him by the leathers and jerked him forward. As he stumbled, she twisted, slamming the much larger man against the nearest wall and pinning him there, one handed, eyes blazing an inhuman green. The shouts of alarm from her Brothers and Sisters were distant but coming closer.

“Well now. That was unexpected.” The Nord hung, unresisting in her grip, some of his attitude toward her was gone, but he seemed more amused by her display of strength and temper than concerned.. “You are moon born. You are wolf. I didn't expect that.”

Boots skidded on the stone that made up the floor as the Argonian, Veezara, came to a stop a respectful distance away, the others practically piling up behind him. Astrid was circling around the rest of the group, her expression stony as it flicked between Kriivah and the Nord.

“Easy Sister,” the Argonian pleaded in a soothing voice. “This is Arnbjorn, one of our own.”

“Your ‘own’ approached me while I slept with the intention of starting a fight. When I met him on my feet, he treated me like prey. He goaded me repeatedly, then openly threatened me when I did not back down.” Her wolf punctuated her words with a deep, breathy growl. “The only reason he lives is because I respect the Brotherhood enough not to kill a Brother out of hand. Make no mistake Arnbjorn, I am not prey, and I am most certainly not an Omega. Bully me at your peril, because I will not tolerate that nonsense.”

“So I see. It’s interesting to me that you are a werewolf, but you don’t smell like one of the Companions. In fact, I can barely smell your wolf at all.”

“I keep myself clean,” came the curt reply. Unless she was forced to change, she would not reveal how different she was. Keeping herself clean was only part of it; the magic that melded the two souls also helped to conceal the wolf from discovery unless she was out in the open.

“Kriivah, I really must insist that you put my husband down.” Astrid’s words were polite enough, though tension sang through her voice.

“It’s all right my love,” Arnbjorn reassured her, “It’s my fault for entering her territory and antagonizing her. I have learned my lesson, dear girl. I will respect your boundaries.”

The wolf narrowed the Breton’s eyes and glared into his own pale gold ones for several seconds before nodding and lowering the man to the floor. She gave him one final growl of warning, and released her hold on him.

He pretended to dust himself off and walked coolly past the barrier of scent. “Not bad for a whelp,” he smirked, “Caught me by surprise. That hasn't happened in a long time.”

Kriivah’s lips tightened. Arnbjorn represented everything she disliked about Nords. Sure they were brave, passionate, amazing fighters and often incredibly loyal to those they cared about. But they were also stubborn, one-track-minded, unlikely to plan ahead, and often slipped into a mindset that marked others as inferior unless they made the effort to prove themselves… usually by beating each other bloody like a pair of bandit thugs.

Arnbjorn had gotten a taste of Kriivah’s fighting spirit, and the dangerous warrior she represented. He would respect that to some degree, but the insults would continue, simply because her ‘win’ had caught him by surprise. Unless she challenged him openly and beat him down in combat, he would never see her as an equal to be respected.

The wolf rumbled and snorted in disgust in her mind. Packs worked together, and compensated for one another’s weaknesses. Wolves who respected nothing but strength were a detriment to the pack. Her wolf rejected him, as she had all the others who had been in Hammerfell.

As the group broke up, she turned to glance at the two who remained…. standing well out of her territory.

Babette was looking at her, looking more like a frightened little girl than the three hundred year old vampire she was. Both hands were covering her mouth and her eyes were wide and frightened. Slowly, she dropped her hands and said, “Kriivah… I didn't know…. And I was manhandling your things while you were unpacking… getting my scent all over them….”

The Breton smiled gently and held up a hand, forestalling any more frightened babbling, “Babette, you did nothing wrong. If I was offended, I would have refused your offer to help. I enjoyed the talks about alchemy. You were in no danger.”

“Am I going to have to mop up puree a la Kriivah one day when you two graduate from catty comments to a… monster mash?” Nazir asked. He tried to sound offhand, but there was real concern in his gaze.

Kriivah’s mouth twitched into a smirk and glanced over at Arnbjorn’s retreating back. “Unlikely. We’ve established some boundaries. I am now a predator in his mind, not prey. We will, however, never be friends.”

She let out a breath and grabbed her hair brush. “Anyway, since I’ve been rudely awakened, I might as well get ready for the day. Speaking of which, Nazir, I’d like to confirm the completion of my jobs.”

“Of course. Meet me in the kitchen for some breakfast. I would hope that feeding you will keep my ankles safe from harm, hmmm?” The Redguard gave her a dry smirk.

Amusement rolled through her, “Ankle biting isn’t very rewarding. I like a fine rump roast, thanks.”

“Duly noted,” her fellow assassin made an exaggerated show of heading for the kitchens at a kind of sideways scuttle, turning his rear safely to the wall.

.

Once she had eaten – happily for Nazir it was beef rather than Redguard rump roast— and her nerves were settled, the two went over the details of her three jobs.

“All right, Narfi and Ennodius are confirmed. How about Beltid?”

"Beitild is dead," she nodded.

Nazir grinned suddenly, "Of course she is. I hear the mining business is extremely cutthroat. And those hours... they're murder.”

Kriivah gave him a look somewhere between horror and amusement.

Babbette called from across the room, “I come from a proud family of murderers. Growing up, my mother used to remind us, ‘You can always depend on the kindness of stranglers.’ “

“Oh! My! Gods! The both of you!” Kriivah yelled in mock disgust and exasperation.

Nazir grinned, “I can do this all day.”

The Sanctuary rang with laughter.

Kriivah left the table feeling in surprisingly good spirits. Nazir and Babette, horrible, horrible jokes aside, seemed to click with her wolf in some small way. Which meant the Breton and the wolf got to enjoy some casual socializing that neither of them got to indulge in back in Hammerfell.

The Breton went to go in search of Cicero, the wolf nudging her thoughts in a particularly unsubtle way. She had become fond of the man, and had rather missed him during her week away.

To her surprise, she found Astrid staring the Imperial down, expression icy. "You and the Night Mother are, of course, welcome here, Cicero. And you will be afforded the respect deserving of your position as Keeper. But make no mistake. I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?"

“Oh yes, mistress. Perfectly! You're the boss." Kriivah wondered if Astrid detected the trace of sarcasm in Cicero’s overly cheerful voice.

Astrid turned away and her focus zeroed in on the approaching werewolf. "Ah, there you are. Good. I was done speaking to that muttering fool anyway. We've got some business to discuss."

Kriivah’s wolf backed her ears. Astrid wasn’t winning points with her hostility.

The Breton cleared her throat and asked, in a voice pitched to sound hopeful, "Do you have a contract for me?"

Astrid gave her a small smile. "I do indeed. You must go to the city of Markarth, and speak with the apothecary's assistant. You'll probably find her in The Hag's Cure, when the shop is open. The girl wants an ex-lover killed, and she's apparently performed the Black Sacrament. Her name is Muiri. I need you to talk to her, set up the contract, and carry it out."

"Anything else?" It sounded like a more standard request, if a little mundane. Still, it was clearly nothing like the insult grade contracts Nazir had handed out. Not that she blamed him for them… it was just that the Dark Brotherhood was floundering if they were being called for petty deaths for homeless, harmless, crazed beggars.

Astrid shrugged. "Just do whatever the contact wishes. Be professional, represent us well, and get the job done.” The woman seemed to think something over briefly, then said, “Since it's your first contract, I'll let you keep whatever Muiri pays. She'll be generous, I'm sure. They always are."

The Nord woman walked away and Kriivah frowned slightly. The Dark Brotherhood leader’s attitude seemed just as hostile as when she had arrived; sweetly friendly words wrapped around the feeling of intruding upon the territory of a possessive alpha.

Markarth was two day’s travel away, presuming that nothing harassed her on the road. It wasn’t as far or as scattered as her last three contracts. But she felt as if she were being gently but firmly shoved out of the den, yet again, for a while… as though her being away from the Sanctuary was what Astrid really wanted. The generosity involved in giving Kriivah the entirety of the pay seemed a bit on par to giving someone some spending money to keep them out of the house for a more extended time than usual.

After a moment, she shook herself a little. For the most part, it didn’t matter.

Cicero had taken command of a room above the waterfall. A circular stained glass window dominated one wall; a large skull bracketed by what looked like stylized rib cages. Hooded figures, what the Breton assumed to be Brotherhood assassins, stalked across the bottom. The whole ensemble bathed the room in a diffuse red and gray light. The Keeper had set the Night Mother’s coffin right in front of it.

She poked her head into the room and greeted him with a smile. She couldn’t stay long, if she wanted to get at least halfway to Markarth before nightfall; the Reach was not the place to dawdle, even for someone as deadly and well trained as an assassin.

“Oh, kindly Kriivah!” the man greeted her happily, “Off on another hunt?”

“Markarth. I didn’t want to miss out on exchanging a few words with you though, since I’ve been gone for a week, and I’m about to be gone for at least another.” The Breton paused to bow politely to the Night Mother’s coffin, and her wolf added a silent whuff of respect.

Cicero looked inordinately pleased by her gesture. “Kriivah is generous with her time for humble Cicero, but she should not dawdle for too long. She has received orders from a superior and should not push her luck. Kriivah will be back, and more opportunities to talk will come up.”

She dipped her head slightly, “True enough.” She turned to leave and then stopped, sweeping the hallway outside of the room thoroughly with her eyes.

“Does Cicero’s wolf friend scent something amiss?” The words were murmured into her ear, not sensually, but with the wary alertness that matched her wolf’s own mood.

“... Not scent exactly,” she murmured back. “But something about the Sanctuary seems… off. Wrong. Like something is missing, but there’s no empty space where it should be.”

“The Tenets.” Cicero said at once, and Kriivah’s eyes widened in realization. “Cicero has been exploring. There isn’t a single copy of the Tenets anywhere within the Sanctuary. It is as if they have been erased from the Brotherhood completely.”

She turned and gave him a horrified stare.

He gave a single, solemn nod. “Go. Kill swiftly and silently. And return soon. Cicero doesn’t like the things he is finding, and could use a sister with fangs at his back.”

As she slipped out of the Sanctuary, Kriivah ran over the tenets in her mind.

Tenet I. Never dishonor the Night Mother.  
Tenet II. Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets.  
Tenet III. Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior.  
Tenet IV. Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister.  
Tenet V. Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister.

To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

The Wrath of Sithis usually resulted in the death of the Brothers and Sisters who violated the Tenets. Usually in a very ugly way. If this chapter of the Brotherhood didn’t follow the Tenets at all... Kriivah shuddered to think of what would happen with Sithis’ patience ran out. Astrid was the leader here, but she was neither Keeper, nor Listener, nor Speaker. She would be their downfall if she did not listen to reason.


	13. Chapter 13

The door to the Hag’s Cure closed behind the werewolf almost soundlessly. Good. Door slamming and loud announcements were for the foolish and the soon-to-be dead.

There was only one person here, a brunette Breton, who could only be Muiri. Perfect timing.

"The Dark Brotherhood has come." Kriivah murmured, leaning against the counter casually.

"The Dark Brotherh...Oh. Oh! I... my goodness, you're really here!” Surprise showed on the Breton’s face, but rapidly swelled to relief. “The Black Sacrament. It actually worked?”

_On the ball today, are we?_ Kriivah thought dryly. "Obviously. Now tell me what you need." With talented fingers, the assassin picked up a Nightshade bloom and began to fiddle with it, delicately tugging at each petal and tapping the stamen over a small bowl. A tiny trickle of pollen began to sift into the vessel.

Muiri’s expression twisted into an expression of pain, frustration and rage. "What I need? What I need is for Alain Dufont to die! I want him hunted down and murdered like the dog he is."

Kriivah blinked. "I need more to go on than that..." _Like a location, maybe, or what to expect from him and any of his associates. That would be a good start._

"I didn't know it when we were... with each other... but Alain is actually the leader of a band of cutthroats. Bandits.”

_Ugh, small surprise there. Skyrim is full of them._

“They're holed up in some old dwarven ruin -- Raldbthar. It's near Windhelm. They use it as their base. It's where they stage their raids. I want you to go to that ruin, find Alain Dufont, and kill him. I don't care about his friends. Do whatever you want with them. But Alain has to die!"

Kriivah gifted the woman with a predatory smile and reached for a deathbell, which she plucked a few petals from and began to grind into the gathered pollen. "It will be done."

"Excellent. Once Alain is dead, I'll pay you. In gold. I've saved up a bit. I hope that'll do.” Muiri paused and looked uncertain for the first time, her eyes following Kriivah’s moements. “Um, what are you doing?”

“Nightshade pollen and three petals from a deathbell.” Kriivah explained, squashing a rush of horrified embarrassment as she realized that a throwback habit of her time training in alchemy had resulted in using the store’s supplies… supplies that she hadn't paid for. Thinking quickly, she poured the mixture into a small, easily concealable bottle and put it into Muiri’s hands with the air of someone bestowing a small gift. “Steep this in some clear water over low heat. Once the mixture cools, it will make a poison that drains the stamina of your victim to nearly nothing before causing them to collapse into a faint that they never awaken from. In Valenwood, we nicknamed it ‘a drink, my dear?’ “

Muiri’s hands folded around the bottle like a treasured gift. Kriivah let out a tiny breath in relief that her fiddling could be played off as a lesson rather than a foolish and unprofessional tic.

Muiri bit her lip as thoughts chased themselves behind her eyes. “There is one more thing. If you're interested?"

Kriivah nodded, "I'm listening."

"If you can... I want you to kill someone else as well. You don't have to - not as part of our deal. But if you do... I'll pay you even more.” The other Breton found encouragement in Kriivah’s expression and barreled on. “It's Nilsine Shatter-Shield, in Windhelm. If Nilsine dies too... I'll make it worth your while."

Curiosity piqued in spite of herself, the werewolf leaned toward Muiri intently. "Tell me the full story. Why do you want Alain dead?"

Muiri’s face crumpled, "I went to see the Shatter-Shields. They were old and dear friends and... in mourning. Friga was killed recently. Murdered…”

Kriivah made a face. “Not one of ours, obviously, or you would not have called upon us.”

“No,” Muiri agreed. “Sparing most of the sordid details, she had been… butchered. Pieces harvested for some vile purpose.”

“Necromancy,” Kriivah scowled, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for that.”

Muiri nodded her acceptance, “Anyway, I met Alain in the tavern, while I was... drinking my sadness away. He was handsome, and charming. He said I was the "beautiful lily" of his dreams. Alain made the pain just... go away.”

“Pretty words; slimy purpose,” Kriivah guessed.

“Exactly. It was all lies! Alain used me. He ruined my name, destroyed my friendship with the Shatter-Shields…” Muiri took a shuddering breath, and Kriivah waited patiently for Muiri’s urge to sob slowly abate.

The assassin absently longed for a drink to press into Muiri’s hands. It seemed like a good topic to share over something strong.

Eventually the woman managed to shift from grief to a shaking fury, “Do you know why Alain was in Windhelm? He heard about Friga's murder. He wanted to befriend the family, in their grief.... and rob them blind. I was a lucky opportunity for him; Alain used me to get close to my friends. And now they all think I'm some kind of... monster. Alain Dufont took my life. And now I'm taking his."

Kriivah shifted her weight slightly, "And Nilsine Shatter-Shield? Why must she die?"

Muiri gestured impatiently, "Don't you see? I was like a daughter to Tova. A sister to Nilsine and Friga. But the family refuses to believe my innocence. They stripped me of my reputation, slandered me to the entire city. They took all I had, and drove me out of town. I didn’t have a Septim to my name when I was driven out of the city, and forced to come to Markarth. No matter what I said, no matter how much I insisted that Alain used me, they treated me like garbage, and threw me away. It was as if all the years that we’d been close had never existed. Like I was some scrap of linen to throw away at the slightest stain. With Nilsine dead, maybe then Tova will realize what she's lost, hmm? Maybe then she'll see that I was just as much a daughter as the others.”

“I don’t think it quite works that way,” the werewolf murmured.

Muiri shrugged, a hard, violent jerk of her shoulders. “Then may she drown in her own tears."

Kriivah noticed that Muiri was caressing the bottle of poison with an odd familiarity and subtle wistfulness. Acting on a hunch, she gently pressed, "Is there anything else you’d like for this job?"

Muiri looked intently at Kriivah for a moment, “You’re someone who knows her poisons.” A nod. “I brewed a special poison or both of them: Lotus Extract. Maybe you could use it?” The assistant shopkeeper pulled two brown bottles out of her pocket.

Kriivah smiled warmly and accepted the bottles. “You are turning this job into quite a treat, Muiri. I will return soon.”

Lotus based poisons were quite rare outside of Valenwood, and just having them in her hands sparked a pleasant feeling of nostalgia. She was going to enjoy this hunt.


	14. Chapter 14

Kriivah entered Windhelm wearing basic leather armor. No need to announce herself with her Brotherhood armor after all. She stalked the Nord woman through the town. Guards were few here, and with so many people milling from district to district, nobody paid much attention to the Breton lazily following Nilsine around, especially since said Breton seemed to be largely ignoring the woman, and only ending up in the same area with about half of the rest of the population.

It was late evening when she spotted Nilsine entering the Hall of the Dead… alone.

The door closed soundlessly behind the werewolf and she melted into the shadows as Helgird, a priestess of Arkay, greeted Nilsine further inside; “Here to pray for your sister’s soul again, my dear?”

“Yes. As usual Helgrid.”

“Very well. I’ll leave you to your private grief. You come get me if you need anything.” The kindly old priestess made her way past Kriivah without noticing her and left the two alone in the silence on the tomb.

Kriivah’s eyes flashed to full green as she sniffed for any scent other than that of the Priestess and Nilsine’s. But all other scents were stale; hours old. Now was the time.

The werewolf approached the Nord, clearing her throat quietly, "Nilsine?” The woman looked up, appearing a little aggravated by the interruption. “Muiri sent me. She is quite unhappy with how you’ve treated her..."

The Shatter-Shield sneered at the Breton with loathing. "Muiri is upset with how we treated her?! How about how she used us? I still can't believe my family trusted that backstabbing little strumpet.”

Kriivah frowned, expression solemn. “She did not betray your trust. Alain used her to get to you. She’s as much a victim as you are.”

“I don’t know who you are, or how much she paid you to spit these lies at me while I’m praying over my dead sister, but I think it’s high time you take your leave. And you tell her that she's dead to us. You hear me? Dead!" Nilsine had resolutely turned her back on the assassin.

Kriivah drew her dagger, generously coated with Lotus Extract. Stepping swiftly behind the woman, she seized Nilsine by the hair in a swift, sure grip, and forced her head back: baring her throat to the deadly blade.

“Funny you should mention the dead…”

.

Raldbthar was just a few hours walk away from Windhelm. She made her way up the steps leading to the front door and dispatched the three sentries so silently that the others never knew that their compatriot, who stepped out of direct sight on yet another miniature patrol, was bleeding out.

Inside, a single sleeping bandit lay in a bedroll. His death was just as silent as the other three. Bypassing the gouts of flame from a strange machine, which was enthusiastically roasting a skeever, Kriivah followed the path that led her to a raised platform above the camp where several bandits were lazing by a fire.

“Alain Dufont,” Kriivah’s voice was pitched to carry, and to seemingly come from every direction.

The men leaped to their feet and Alain signaled to the others to thoroughly search the lower level.

“You seem to know me. But I don’t recall hearing your lovely voice before.” The man replied, voice oily and sweet, sweeping the shadows with his gaze.

“I come with a message, Alain…” Kriivah drew her Daedric bow and notched an arrow, the pincer shaped head glistening with the Lotus Extract. “Muiri wishes to thank you for the lovely evening…. And for ruining her life.”

The other bandits were searching more frantically as she spoke, Dufont drawing his sword as his face twisted into a sneer. “Oh really? Well to be honest, I would have enjoyed her a little more if she had been a little more entertaining in bed. The little harlot could use a few pointers in keeping a real man’s interest.”

One of the bandits finally turned and stared up at the upper level, raking the shadows, searching for her.

“When she meets a **real** man, she won’t need pointers.”

The bandit pointed at Kriivah’s crouching figure with a shout, just as the whistle of the arrow culminated in the meaty thunk of the poisoned tip punching through Alain’s chest armor and burying itself in his flesh. Alain had only a few seconds to stare in stupefaction at the arrow that had seemingly sprouted from his body, and then he sank to his knees, then to the floor.

Giving a feral grin, Kriivah drew her other poisoned blades and turned to meet the first of the bandits charging up the slope at her.

.

"Alain Dufont now lies dead," Kriivah told Muiri, dropping the man’s sword on the counter as proof. “As does Nilsine.”

Muiri laughed, a world of bitterness in the sound, but also relief. "Thank you. That bastard got exactly what he deserved. And... Thank you for Nilsine. You have more than fulfilled your part of the bargain.” Muiri pressed a few more bottles of Lotus Extract into Kriivah’s hands, as well as a generous sack of septims. “I noticed you appreciated getting the two bottles I gave you. Please take these, as a gift and sign of my gratitude. Use them well.”


	15. Chapter 15

Astrid was waiting in the foyer, a small smile on her face, "Ah, you're back. So, how went your first **real** contract? A bit more exciting than what Nazir's been offering, I'd wager."

Kriivah nodded. “It was full of unexpected pleasures.”

Astrid’s smile was genuinely pleased for the first time. “Oh, very good. Very good indeed. I wasn’t sure at first, but you, my dear, are going to fit in quite nicely…”

_I’m not sure how to respond to the implication that being in the Brotherhood was considered probationary._ Kriivah thought to her wolf. _I am already a Sister in the eyes of Sithis. Astrid has no say in the matter._

_She’s a bad alpha,_ came the response. _Don’t trust her._

_Agreed._

Unaware of the silent conversation happening behind Kriivah’s green eyes, Astrid continued, “Now, I need your assistance with a matter of a more... personal nature."

Kriivah tilted her head, noting the wary expression on the Nord’s face, "Is something wrong?"

"It's Cicero. Ever since he arrived, his behavior's been... Well, erratic would be an understatement. I do believe he is truly mad. But it's worse than that. He's taken to locking himself in the Night Mother's chamber, and talking. To someone. In hushed, but frantic tones.”

“Cicero talks to himself. I can personally vouch for that,” Kriivah tried to soothe the assassin leader’s anxiety.

“This isn’t like his usual muttering.” Astrid insisted. “He speaks and stops long enough for someone to answer. I can’t catch the answers, or I wouldn’t need you to investigate. I need to know who he’s speaking with and what they’re planning. I know that as the Night Mother's Keeper, he believes he's entitled to the rule of this Sanctuary.”

“In a way, he is right,” Kriivah pointed out. “The Keeper of the Night Mother is one of five members of the Black Hand, who are supposed to rule the Dark Brotherhood.”

Astrid’s expression darkened, and a dangerous light glittered in her eyes, "The Night Mother represents a chapter in the Dark Brotherhood's history that has long since been closed. Today we live by our own rules. We're the last Sanctuary in all of Tamriel, and only by forgoing the old ways have we survived for so long. This is **my** Sanctuary. There is no Black Hand here, and there never will be. Understood?”

Kriivah would have reared back in shock and horror if her wolf had not leaped forward to seize her by the metaphorical scruff and hold her still. The wolf was better able to hide emotions and not give away the sudden turn of thoughts. She held the stunned Breton immobile and smooth faced.

“Of course, Astrid,” the wolf’s voice was pleasant and silky coming from the Breton’s lips.

Astrid looked immensely self-satisfied. “I’m glad you understand the way things are around here. It’s wise to know your place. I wouldn’t want trouble to... dog your footsteps.”

The veiled insult and not-so-subtle threat made the wolf bristle within the Breton. Astrid didn’t know, couldn’t possibly know how close she was to dying where she stood.

With the wolf in control, the Breton could move with a speed that few humans could match. A flick of her hand. A lightning fast blow that no human, no matter how well trained, could hope to block. A single move, and claws would sprout from the ends of her fingers, rip through Astrid’s throat and send arterial spray like a warm shower across her armor.

The Breton could see it, could almost feel the heat of the blood, could almost feel the tingling rush of killing, and knew she would savor watching Astrid sink to the ground with an expression of shock as her lifeblood ebbed. The image and phantom sensations spilled through the wolf’s mind with the vividness of her most cherished kill-dreams.

Kriivah gripped the wolf in turn, keeping her from acting, no matter how powerful the longing.

At the Breton’s nudging, the wolf arched an eyebrow sardonically, both silently pleased that the emotion was conveyed so well through the human’s face. “Funny thing, I killed several troublesome ‘dogs’ on my way here. Their screams were…. like music,” the wolf chuckled. “But I will make you a deal.”

Astrid’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“You don’t like me, for some reason. You aren’t very good at hiding it,” the wolf added, at the surprise in the Nord’s eyes. “And to be honest, I don’t really care. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in Hammerfell, either. So here’s the deal; the Sanctuary is my home. Obeying orders is what I’ve always done, and I will continue to do so, while staying out of your way as much as possible. In return, you and your… husband, leave me be. Do not trouble me, and I will not trouble you. Can we both live with that?”

The assassin leader’s smile was thin, but she nodded in curt acceptance. “Agreed. Now, for finding out what Cicero is up to, the plan is simple. I need you to steal into that chamber, and eavesdrop on their meeting. It'll be no use clinging to the shadows. They'll see you for sure. No, you need a hiding place. Somewhere they'd never think to look.... like inside the Night Mother's coffin.”

Kriivah shuddered internally, still held in the wolf’s firm control. _We can’t! That violates the very first Tenet!_

The wolf gave her a tiny, mental shake to silence her.

“Simple enough,” the wolf told the assassin leader, then turned and headed deeper into the Sanctuary.

The Nord woman did not seem to notice that the green of Kriivah’s eyes had filled her gaze until they were entirely inhuman, nor did she notice the small but perceptible change from a smooth walk to what was very much a hunter’s gait.

The wolf released her just outside of Cicero’s room above the waterfall, where they had a moment of privacy to collect themselves.

_We can’t do it. We can’t! The Night Mother’s coffin?!_ Kriivah wanted to pace like a trapped wolf but held herself still, under her own control this time. _Sithis will personally…_

The Breton’s frantic, mental rant died. Above the steady splashing rush of the waterfall, the seductive double beat returned. It was louder now. Stronger. And now she could identify it; a heartbeat.

Slowly, carefully, she tracked the sound; it was no surprise to either of them that it was coming from the coffin. It was a surprise, however, to see the lid swing open of its own accord. An otherworldly force wrapped itself around her and drew her inside, closing the lid gently behind her. She was engulfed the the scent of old death, flesh turned to leather, and the preservative oils used to keep the Night Mother’s body intact.

Her wolf never appreciated being trapped, and a sharp growl bubbled in her throat.

A strange woman’s voice entered the space where the wolf and the Breton communicated, _“Hush my dear fanged one. You may leave in but a moment.”_

The wolf froze. Kriivah’s mouth fell open.

Before either could process the realization of who the voice had to be, footsteps heralded Cicero’s approach. He was cheerfully humming to himself, as always. The door closed, and the sound of the waterfall became more muted.

"Are we alone? Yes... yes... alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us.” The Imperial chattered. “Everything is going according to plan. The others... I've spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex... perhaps even the Argonian, and the un-child…”

Kriivah smiled. _Clever Crow,_ she thought, _I’m glad he’s working on the group._

“But the best? The best, Mother, is Cicero’s wolf lady friend, Kriivah.” Kriivah would have jumped if she could have. “You remember… well of course you remember her aid on the road. Of course you do.” It sounded like he was pacing a little. “She lives the Tenets. Breathes them. If Cicero is to have assassins at his back… well… let the Breton and her wolf be the ones.”

The Breton swallowed, touched.

“What about you? Have you... have you spoken to anyone?” His voice was hopeful, but then trailed off in disappointment. “No.... No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and saying! And what do you do? Nothing!” His voice became sharp with frustration, then he hastily checked himself. “Not... not that I'm angry! No, never! Cicero understands. Heh. Cicero always understands! And obeys! You will talk when you're ready, won't you? Won't you... ...sweet Night Mother?" It was soft now, a plea.

_"Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener,"_ the voice murmured, making Kriivah wince.

The wolf shifted in her mind, licking her chops anxiously. Kriivah understood the wolf’s discomfort; her body was crowded enough with two souls communicating. With the Night Mother thrown into the mix, it was getting downright crowded inside her skull. Neither of them liked this, but what choice did they have?

_"I will not intrude beyond what is necessary. I give you this task, my dear, two souled Listener... Journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre. And tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for, all these years: 'Darkness rises when silence dies.'"_

The strange force that had kept them immobile shifted, and Kriivah was propelled out of the coffin, doors opening wide to reveal the Breton, who stumbled a step out of her unwanted hiding place.

Cicero’s face shifted from shock to fury, “Kriivah?! What? What are you doing in the Night Mother’s coffin?!” He moved: a swift, darting movement like a striking bird. One arm was thrust across her chest, driving her back against the wall next to the coffin. His ebony dagger was a sharp, deadly beak; pressing oh so delicately against her throat.

Kriivah did not resist, and did not lash back. Even the wolf, deadly predator and fearless in sinking her fangs into an attacker, whined and shrank within Kriivah’s skin.

Cicero was understandably angry, and in truth, Kriivah would have helped him put an end to anyone found in her position.

“Cicero thought Kriivah respected the Tenets. Cicero felt we were becoming friends. So Cicero will let Kriivah explain herself.” His voice was low, but it shook with rage.

“The Night Mother spoke to us, Cicero. She called us here.” Kriivah tilted her head back a bit, baring her throat like a wolf submitting. She raised her hands slowly, showing him that her daggers were still sheathed, offering neither threat nor resistance to the Imperial.

"She... spoke to you?” He blinked into her green eyes, startled for a moment, then they burned with anger again. “That’s not true! The Night Mother speaks only to the Listener! And there is... no... Listener!" His voice broke, frustration and a world of self recrimination in his voice. “Cicero searched forever! Visiting all the broken and shattered Sanctuaries. Do you know how large Tamriel is!? There was no Listener to be found!”

“You found me,” Kriivah said gently, “...or, did I find you?” She tilted her head slightly, thoughtfully, feeling the edge of the blade rasp delicately against the soft skin of her neck. “She’s been calling me, softly, since the day I came to your carriage. I heard her heartbeat that day. Though, at the time, it was almost too soft to recognize.”

Cicero scowled suspiciously at her, his eyes darkened to a dark bronze, searching for any sign of deceit. His voice was slow and deliberate, enunciating every word so there could be no doubt of the seriousness of his next words. “If she really spoke to you, then she would have said something to you. Something specific. Something that would identify you as the true Listener. Tell me the words.”

“Darkness rises when silence dies.”

The blade was gone from her neck in an instant. "She... she said that to you? But those are the words! The Binding Words. Written in the Keeping Tomes. The signal so I would know. Mother's only way of talking to humble Cicero..."

Suddenly the Breton was pulled from the wall and into Cicero’s arms as he clung to her, his face buried in her neck.

“Oof!” Kriivah grunted in surprise, then slowly lifted her arms to return the unexpectedly gentle embrace.

“Then... it is true! She is back! Our Lady is back! She has chosen a Listener! And she has chosen you!” He made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, muffled against her. “Kriivah has no idea how happy this makes Cicero!”

There was a bang at the door, and Kriivah barely had the chance to blink before Cicero had released her. The glance they shared was too fleeting to impart all the thoughts and feelings flying between them properly.

Then the cunning Keeper began to dance maniacally, face stretched in a wide grin as he clapped his hands. “Ha ha ha! All hail the Listener!"

The door smashed open, Astrid gripping a dark and wicked looking black dagger. She strode into the room, shouting, "By Sithis, this ends now! Back away, fool! Whatever you've been planning is over!”

“Planning? Planning? What might sweet Astrid be thinking poor, humble Cicero could possibly be doing behind the boss lady’s back?”

“Don’t play games with me, madman. I’ve heard you talking to someone in here.” Looking sharply at Kriivah, she asked, “Are you alright? I heard the commotion. Who was Cicero talking to? Where's the accomplice?” Astrid spun, eyes raking the shadowed corners of the room and raising her voice, “Reveal yourself, traitor!"

"I spoke only to the Night Mother! I spoke to the Night Mother, but she didn't speak to me. Oh no. She spoke only to her! To the Listener!" Cicero pranced behind Kriivah and put his hands lightly on her shoulders.

"What? The Listener? What are you going on about? What is this lunacy?" The assassin leader looked from one to the other incredulously.

"It's true, it's true! The Night Mother has spoken! The silence has been broken! The Listener has been chosen!" Cicero capered around the room, occasionally dropping into a handspring that left Astrid glaring in confused disgust.

Finally, she looked at the Breton for clarification. “What. In Oblivion. Is he babbling about?”

“Apparently I’m the Listener,” Kriivah said. “I heard the Night Mother. She told me about a contract. I’m to approach Amaund Motierre in Volunruud.”

"Amaund Motierre? I have no idea who that is. But Volunruud... that I **have** heard of. And I know where it is." Astrid eyed Cicero’s antics thoughtfully.

“Well then, I’ll go contact him, I guess.” Kriivah sighed wearily at the thought of heading out yet again.

But Astrid jerked and her eyes snapped back to the Breton’s sharply. "No! Listen, I don't know what's going on here, but you take your orders from **me**. Are we clear on that?”

“Astrid, I understand that you’re the leader here, but if it’s a good contract, it could help put the Dark Brotherhood back on the map.” Kriivah spread her hands, “Can we really, truly, afford to ignore it?”

Astrid scowled, “The Night Mother may have spoken to you, but I am still the leader of this Family. I am the one who hands out contracts, not you, not the Night Mother. And I will not have my authority so easily dismissed. I... I need time to think about all this. Go see Nazir - do some work for him.” Kriivah’s mouth tightened as she tried to interpret the sudden, strange look that came to Astrid’s eyes. “In fact, yes, that’s **exactly** what I’m going to have you do. Nazir has… an interesting one... for you. You specifically, in fact. I'll find you when I'm ready to discuss the matter of Amaund further." The Nord woman spun on her heel and strode off, leaving Kriivah and Cicero in her wake.

The wolf brought the Breton’s head up and she sniffed the air lightly. Astrid’s scent lingered in the air. And the instability in it had increased. That was bad. That was **very** bad.

Cicero seized her hands and pulled her into an impromptu dance, spinning the startled Breton around with him. "You are the Listener! You heard the words! And everything will soon be put right."

Kriivah scrambled to get her thoughts in order, “Hush! Hush Cicero, hush! We can’t act rashly now.” She gave his hands a tug and drew him close. “Walk softly, and do not betray your presence before you strike. Remember?”

“Of course! Of course!” Cicero’s voice was softer but no less enthusiastic.

Kriivah glanced toward the door to make sure they were truly alone, then gently teased the ends of his hair with her fingertips, mimicking the grooming motions of a bird. Cicero made a very soft sound of approval and leaned slightly toward her fingers.

The Breton hesitated for a heartbeat, then said softly, “Cicero, are you sure you’re okay with this? I mean, didn’t you want to be the Listener?”

His face fell slightly, "Oh... Well... yes. I did. I did indeed. I tried to listen. Tried so hard. But the Night Mother never spoke to poor Cicero. The silence became almost... maddening.”

Kriivah grimaced a little, wondering what the poor man had endured that had driven him to the current state. He had mentioned silence and loneliness several times. Her wolf had mentioned that he was broken and that something else was lurking in his mind. She didn’t have enough to go on at the moment but the clues she did have hinted at something unpleasant.

“Oh, but that was then! This is now!” Cicero hastened to reassure the werewolf. “You're the Listener, and the Night Mother chose you! Cicero will remain the happy Keeper if Kriivah is at his side."

“I feel like I have taken something from you...”

Cicero reached out with both hands, fingers seeking and finding the soft patches of skin behind her ears. “Shh, Listener,” he murmured, delicately caressing the spots with the barest brush of his fingertips. “You did not. Cicero was not lying when he said he was happy.”

_Is he seriously scratching behind my ears?_ Kriivah asked her wolf, feeling amusement and disbelief in equal measures.

_Yes. And it feels good!_ Kriivah’s wolf gave a soft groan of pleasure; a groan that slipped past the Breton’s control and earned a triumphant grin from the Keeper.

“Hmmm. Cicero wonders if this is a wolf thing, or whether Cicero is just that talented with his hands.”

The green filled her eyes. “Why not both?”

Cicero blinked down at her, and then began to laugh. “Oh! Kriivah’s beautiful, deadly wolf does know how to complement humble Cicero.”

“Okay you two,” Kriivah eventually, and reluctantly, pulled herself out of the pleasant lassitude that Cicero’s caress had dropped her into. “As much as I enjoy the stolen moments, it is probably… unhealthy… for me to remain in the Keeper’s presence for too long.”

Her wolf paused, and then grumbled her reluctant agreement.

Cicero grew somber. “Kriivah is correct. The Pretender may target her.” His hands dropped from her neck and squeezed her shoulders lightly. “Tread very carefully, sweet Sister. Cicero has only just found his precious Listener. He doesn’t want to lose her so soon.” Quickly, and so lightly that she barely felt the touch, he kissed her chin; a submissive gesture to her wolf, a tender gesture to the Breton.

The two souls granted him a rare, genuine smile, then left the room on silent feet.


	16. Chapter 16

_Elation! Elation and triumph!_ Oh, Cicero had not felt such joy in far, far too long!

When the lady werewolf had stumbled out of her hiding place, it had been a bad moment. A bad moment indeed. Embarrassment at having been overheard singing her praises had been washed away at the shock, horror and fury that she had done something so sacrilegious. He hadn’t been able to fathom what would make a fellow Sister do something like that. The mere idea… the sheer audacity! And then? And then! The words. The precious Binding Words had spilled from her lips.

Cicero couldn’t hold back a low, relieved, and triumphant chuckle.

The Pretender was still in power, but not for long. No. Her reign of disrespectful insolence to the Tenets would soon end.

The presence returned. Cicero’s head came up as though in response to a person walking through the door, but once more, there was no one but himself and the Night Mother.

The presence was hesitant this time, approaching warily. Skirting the edges of his thoughts. It seemed unsure of its welcome.

Kriivah’s wolf. It had to be. Somehow the deadly wolf soul was able to slip into the Imperial’s mind through the strange tide of energy that still cradled his broken psyche.

Cicero closed his eyes and focused on the soft rustle of fur. She started back in surprise at his focus upon her, started to retreat, started to slip away.

“No,” he whispered, less a command than a plea. “You are not unwelcome. Come. Stay with Cicero for a bit.”

The wolf came back. She brushed against his thoughts, lighter than a cat, and he responded with thoughts of welcome.

He could actually feel her relax: there was a subtle tension in his mind that he knew didn’t belong to him, and it eased when he addressed her.

He could hear her begin to sniff delicately here and there. The longer it went on, the more it felt like she was tracking something.

“What are you looking for?” He murmured.

_“Talking to what isn’t there, Cicero?” The Jester’s voice sneered._

There was the softest sound, more felt than heard. A soft, breathy growl; low but full of hostility. He could almost see a pair of pointy ears rise and swivel, searching for the source of the sound of The Jester’s voice.

“Oh but she is, she is.” Cicero smirked. “She stalks through my thoughts and stands beside me. She fills parts of me left broken by the silence and the solitude.”

_“And I keep telling you there is nothing but the two of us. Still you cling to the delusion of another.”_ The Jester lurked behind Cicero’s shoulder, every word sending a feeling of rawness to the parts of him still broken and empty.

The wolf continued to cast about, pursuing the words as they left their mark on Cicero’s psyche. He felt her soft presence soothing where The Jester left pain. But sadly behind. Always behind The Jester. As though only able to find footprints left behind but not the one who made them.

Frustration was a sharp sting for both of them.

Finally, she turned away from what she couldn’t seem to properly detect. He felt something get nudged, and another, undefined thing slid into place. The dull feel-good ache filled him once more.

Movement. The hush of fur against his fingertips, felt against skin as through his gloves weren’t even on.

“It is no delusion,” Cicero retorted.

The Jester stood before the assassin now, scowling with his arms crossed. _“This feeling will go away. It always goes away. Nothing stays. You are always alone in the end.”_

Cicero closed his eyes against the image of The Jester, outlined in that green glow that made his stomach churn, but the image seemed to be seared against the backs of his eyelids. He clutched lightly at the fur between his fingers, and felt, for but an instant, something solid press against his palms. “Not this time. Cicero has found something special.”

_“Special, he says. And yet, here you sit, pretending to pet empty air,”_ The Jester laughed, mocking the Imperial.

Something warm and wet darted out, gliding along Cicero’s jaw. A tongue. He had _felt_ her lick him. There was a low _snorf_ sound near his ear, the kind of sound a dog makes when exhaling and licking their chops. He could **_feel_** the breath, almost-but-not-quite stirring the ends of his long hair.

He longed to press his face into the thick fur, to feel the pointed tips of velvety ears between his fingertips. He even, he realized with a small giggle, wanted to smell that huff of doggie breath in his face.

The phantom sensations and sounds seemed to strengthen, the more he _wanted_ the wolf’s presence.

Cicero looked at The Jester suddenly. “Cicero detects fear in The Jester, who tries so **hard** to deny what he can’t find. What does The Jester fear, hmmm?”

_“Nothing.”_ The words were cold. _“I fear nothing. Not even the loneliness bothers me.”_

As The Jester winked out, Cicero smiled. For the first time, The Jester had **lied**.


	17. Chapter 17

Morning found Kriivah in the kitchen, preparing boiled oats sweetened with honey, and flavored with chopped nuts and dried fruit.

Nazir joined her after a moment of staring, and then began to heat sausages. The two soon fell into a companionable rhythm. By the time the rest of the Brotherhood stumbled in, a sizeable breakfast had been prepared by the pair.

The two cooks were lavished with praise from all quarters. Even Arnbjorn grunted his approval as he dug into a string of sausages laid aside for his werewolf appetite.

“Well now,” the old mage known as Festus Krex commented, sitting back with a satisfied sigh, “I figured we would be mopping up a breakfast of spilled blood the first time you invaded Nazir’s kitchen, my dear. Too many cooks and all that.”

“No. I am a chef, and cooking is a passion, but I have no wish to deny a fellow cook a place to work his arts.”

“What, no territory claiming?” Arnbjorn’s voice was snarky around his last sausage. “I figured you would just strut right in and declare ownership. You’re an apex predator after all.”

Kriivah sensed more than saw her Siblings suddenly focusing on her, awaiting her answer. Astrid was pretending a little too hard to be focused on her own breakfast, a little too nonchalant.

_Subtle. Subtle like a dagger to the gut._ She told her wolf dryly.

Out loud, the Breton merely snickered derisively around her mouth full of food, finishing it off at leisure and not bothering to hide her amused dismissal of Arnbjorn’s thinly veiled suggestion.

“For what point and purpose? To create hostility in the one place I should be safe and happy?” Kriivah shook her head, clearly dismissing the suggestion as stupid. “Nazir claimed the kitchen long before I came to the Sanctuary. Just as Faustus claimed the Enchanting table and Babette claimed her alchemy lab. I did not come to Falkreath to stab backs and claim dominance, Arnbjorn.” She took another bite of sausage, chewed and swallowed. “Babette and I enjoyed discussing our passions the very first day I arrived. And I brought a peace offering of supplies with me, which Nazir is free to use in his own creations. My wish is to work _with_ this Family, not against them. Nazir and I seem to share similar tastes in cooking, so I think we can split food duties.” Kriivah flashed the Redguard a small grin and received a small, agreeable nod in turn.

The subtle tension drained from the room, and Astrid stopped pretending to ignore the conversation.

_There. Let that throttle her paranoia back a bit._

“Although, speaking of stabbing, I hear you have something for me,” Kriivah told Nazir. “When we’re done eating, of course.”

Once the breakfast crowd had cleared away, Kriivah started on the dishes. She was not above helping with domestic chores. Nazir certainly approved, and grabbed a towel to dry the implements she handed him.

“You are correct. As it turns out, I've got a very unusual one…” The Redguard paused and trailed off, looking uncertain for the first time.

“What is it?” Kriivah had never seen a Brother hesitating like this before.

Assassins could be cold, cruel and dangerous. Jobs were completed with icy efficiency. No hesitation. No remorse. What kind of contract could put a ruthless killer in such a state of hesitation?

Nazir worked his jaws briefly, and when his dark eyes met hers, there was genuine unease in them. “We received word of the Black Sacrament being performed in The Reach.”

“Forsworn?” She asked, surprised.

“No. A Khajiit known as Kesh, The Clean. He’s a follower of Peryite.”

“The Lord of Pestilence?!” Kriivah’s voice rose to a high pitched squeak, “What in Sithis’ name does _He_ want with us?” She made a face and then grumbled. “… Other than the obvious, I mean.”

Nazir did not smirk or tease her for her question, which said plenty about his discomfort about the whole thing. “That, I do not know. Astrid wanted to refuse the contract outright. She didn’t want to risk anyone to exposure to the stuff Peryite cooks up. We’ve never considered outright refusal without even speaking to our Contact before, but that goes to show you how much this concerns her. Out of anyone in our Family, the only ones of us immune to disease are the ones already infected with something. Even then, who among us is capable?”

The list was pretty short. _Babette, who is a vampire, but little more than a child physically. Arnbjorn, who solves things by ripping people apart and eating the pieces; not recommended among Peryite’s Afflicted even if he **is** a werewolf. Which leaves me. _Kriivah heaved a deep sigh.

The Redguard nodded slowly. “You understand then, that you are the only one we dare risk, because you are careful and capable of handling this well.”

The small swell of pride at his words did not fully overwhelm her unease.

“I want to be very clear about this,” Nazir leaned closer to her, and the deep concern in his direct stare kept her wolf from being offended, “This is **not** a contract you are being ordered to take. I know Astrid can be a bit… heavy handed on occasion, but if you refuse, the whole Brotherhood will stand behind your decision. Astrid included.”

Kriivah doubted that, but didn't contest it out loud. She was silent for several seconds, staring down at the grain of the table. Finally she rose, “I must speak to the Night Mother.”

The Redguard assassin tilted his head marginally, but said nothing as she left him and walked to the doorway above the waterfall.

Cicero looked up from writing in one of his journals and a wide smile crossed his face. “Sweet Sister, what brings you to our matron’s room?”

“A disturbing contract has supposedly been offered. Forgive me for not socializing, Cicero, but…”

The Imperial looked at her expression and waved airily, “No offence taken, lady wolf. No offense taken. Cicero will not get in the Listener’s way when speaking to our Mother.” He went back to writing as the Breton knelt before the coffin.

_“Night Mother, has this Black Sacrament been performed correctly?”_ she silently inquired.

There was a pause, then the voice answered, _“Yes Listener. More than that, you were indeed requested specifically for the job.”_

_“Me. Peryite wants **me** specifically to do this?”_ her wolf stirred and paced at the human’s agitation.

_“This is… a most unusual request._ ” The Night Mother’s voice was somewhat hesitant, _“Kesh has performed the Black Sacrament at Peryite’s request, and the Daedric Prince has offered reassurances to our Dread Father for your safety and immunity to his ichor and influence. We.... understand your reluctance to take the word of a Daedric Prince, and will not punish you, should you turn away from His contract.”_

Kriivah’s eyebrows rose until they disappeared beneath her fire-red bangs. Never before had there been a… choice left wholly to an assassin about whether to take a job, nor had the Will of Sithis ever been withheld in any memory of the Brotherhood. This job was, truly and completely, up to the werewolf.

She didn’t know whether to crawl under her bed and pull her blankets in after herself, or to just snap like a twig and join Cicero in his delightful giggling madness. Both sounded appealing at the moment. To have Sithis; the Dread Father; literally Death Incarnate; doing the equivalent of throwing up his skeletal hands and proclaiming, “Nope, I’m not touching that,” gave the little mortal chills.

The Breton sat in silence and deep contemplation before the Night Mother’s coffin, mulling it over. As the candles in the room began to burn down to short nubs, a warm hand came to rest on her shoulder.

Kriivah jumped a little and sucked in a deep breath.

“Cicero is sorry for interrupting, but he brought food for you, and thought perhaps a small break from Kriivah’s clearly difficult decision would help.”

She let out the big breath in a sigh and got up, stretching her aching muscles with relief, “I think it’s a very good idea. Thank you, Cicero.”

As the pair ate, she explained the job and the Contact. “I’m really kind of stuck on this,” she finally admitted. “Do you have any insight?”

Cicero shrugged, “Daedric Prince or not, he has given his word to Sithis. None go back on such promises, and what little Cicero knows is that Peryite is not one to use twisty words to squiggle and squirm into technicalities.”

Slowly, she nodded.

“Visit the Khajiit, see what is offered, and make your final decision then.” Cicero’s fingers hesitated only long enough to receive her nod before catching her chin and tilting her head up for a light kiss. “Tread lightly, and return to Cicero safely, lady wolf. The Pretender sends dark looks Cicero’s way.”


	18. Chapter 18

The Khajiit in question had pale fur with black tear tracks on either side of his muzzle. Interesting to note; he wore the traditional lightweight hood worn by the Redguards in Hammerfell, a white tunic, black trousers, tan boots and heavy gloves. The only parts of him exposed to the air were his face and his long, mottled tail.

As Kriivah approached, he looked up in mild surprise, "Ah, a wanderer, yes? No? Pilgrim, perhaps?”

“Wrong on both counts cat-kin,” Kriivah told him. “Your prayer has been answered. I am Kriivah.”

“Truly?” His face bloomed into a fanged smile. “Then this is a joyous day, no? Kesh feared that a Daughter of Sithis would want no part of Peryite’s deal, regardless of promises.”

“I am still not certain I should. Tell me more about Peryite.” The Breton decided to gather intel first.

The Khajiit nodded and gestured genially to a bench. Once they had taken their seats, he began. “He is the pus in the wound. Oh, proper ones curl their noses, but it's pus that drinks foul humors and restores the blood. I worship Peryite, yes, because sometimes the world can only be cleansed by disease."

_Eurgh._ The Breton grimaced behind her face mask. _I probably shouldn’t judge, but where we only kill a few people, disease wipes out all in its path, indiscriminately._

Kesh looked hopefully at her, “You have come to commune with Peryite, Taskmaster and blighted Lord, yes? You have come to receive the details of your Contract?”

Kriivah nodded reluctantly.

"Not everyone has the stomach required to entreat my Lord. But He likes you, friend.” The Khajiit reassured her. “There is a way Peryite may speak to us who will take Him in. If you wish to commune with Him, we'll need the incense."

She could feel her stomach twist into knots at the sight of a jug of… sludge… was the best way to describe it. It was about as thick as crystallized honey, and a sickly looking pine green in color. Green vapor rose like smoke and twisted and waved in the air like appendages of a living creature. If she stared too long, she could have sworn the sludge was somehow smoldering like coals.

Her wolf stared intently at the stuff, less out of fear than out of a sudden, intense need to memorize its appearance. She didn’t ask questions, she simply allowed her wolf to study the stuff.

“Now, to commune with Peryite, you have but to lean over the jug and inhale deeply." Kesh gestured to the sludge.

_I am not touching that stuff. And may Sithis forgive him if he tries to push me into it, because I will not._

“Inhale only?” Kriivah did not bother to hide the threat in her tone of voice.

“Inhale only, daughter of Sithis.”

Kriivah bit her lip, lowering her face mask and reminding herself over and over that the Daedric Prince had promised her immunity. She carefully gripped the wide brim of the jug, leaned forward, and took a deep breath of the gently swaying green fumes.

She was hit by the bitter smell of a sick room that had yet to be aired out. Bitterness, bile, stomach acid from vomit and other, even less savory hints filled her nose. The saliva in her mouth turned thick, and she swallowed, trying not to let nausea drive her to lose her lunch straight into the Daedric Lord’s ichor.

The world blurred sharply, and a strange, floating sense of detachment engulfed her head. Everything was tinted green.

Something coalesced out of the vapors, becoming the largest skeever she had ever seen. It could have given her wolf a run for her money.

"Breathe deep, mortal.” The creature spoke in a rasping voice, “I would have you hear me well, so let these vapors fill your lungs."

“Ah. You must be an aspect of Peryite.” Kriivah’s head was spinning enough that she tightened her grip on the jug.

“That I am, mortal. The skeever is quite a useful creature for carrying out my will and bestowing my blessing.”

_Is it any wonder that the Lord of Pestilence uses a giant rodent as his totem?_ The Breton asked her wolf dryly.

Her wolf made a sound similar to a disgusted sneeze.

“These fumes… have I been poisoned?” A few poisons in her knowledge gave the slightly heady feeling she was experiencing, though she had taken great pains to build an immunity to the poisons she commonly used.

"In a sense, but no more poisoned than a fool after too much wine.” The ghostly rat reassured her. “I promise you, your head will clear swiftly when we are done speaking.”

_Best get down to business then._ She decided, and took another deep breath of the green fumes. The ghostly skeever solidified a bit more before her and the world gave an enthusiastic swirl before settling down again. “Why did you ask for me, specifically?”

The Skeever bared its teeth in a parody of a grin, "I have watched you for some time, you know. The decisions you've made intrigue me and I wonder if you are a proper agent for a task of mine. You are clever. Cunning. In the end, no matter how slippery your prey, the job gets done.”

“You asked for an assassin. Who am I being sent to kill?”

The skeever groomed a front leg absently, “I sent a blessing to Mundus: a wasting plague that infected a scattering of Breton villages. One of my monks, the elf Orchendor, was sent to gather these Afflicted. He shepherded them into Bthardamz for me, but has since turned from my commands.”

“You want me to parade through an underground dwarven city, past countless infected Bretons, to kill their leader.” Kriivah made it a statement, rather than a question.

“In short, yes. The plague that the Bretons carry is particularly virulent among elves,” the aspect of Peryite thumped his hairless tail on the ground, “The Bretons are merely carriers. Their human blood reduces the disease. They were meant to travel to the Summerset Isles.” The skeever form shook with mocking laughter, “The Altmer, and particularly the Thalmor, would all benefit from a touch of the plague, don’t you think? Their self-proclaimed superiority is but an illusion, and what better way to knock a supremacist down a peg or two than to grow ill from a disease that the… ‘lesser’ races” do not suffer from?”

“An… interesting way to teach them a lesson, I’m sure… And in return for my doing your will?”

“Ahh, the pettiness of mortals. I had almost forgotten.” The skeever yawned insolently at her. “I can grant you a gift rarely wielded by others; a dagger forged from the bones of ancient dragons, and enchanted with spells fitting for an assassin. Return when the elf lies dead and it will be yours.”

“Then we have a contract. Orchendor will die.”

“I grant you a blessing...” Magic surged over her, tingling as it rolled over her skin. “Your status as a werewolf protects you from being infected. I grant you this additional boon while doing my will… that no disease clings to your skin or clothes or weapons. You will not be the one to spread my plague if the deed is done.” The skeever bowed mockingly to her and faded from sight.

Kriivah pushed back from the jug and its fumes, gasping as she pushed back too quickly and the world lurched and spun.

Kesh’s voice purred in her ear a moment before he lightly gripped her arm, “Slowly, slowly. It takes a few seconds for the fresh air to clear your head.”

The Breton allowed herself to be gently steered to the bench once more. She felt as though cobwebs were being cleared out from between her ears with every breath she took, and within a moment or two, felt the last of the effects fade from her senses.

Kriivah silently cursed herself for not getting her destination from Peryite. “Kesh, where is Bthardamz?”

"Not far, not far. This one looks upon it on clear days. Look to the west, there, at the foot of the mountain. The Dwarven ruins, there. Bthardamz." The Khajiit pointed, and she found it to be true; a few hours, tops, of traversing the hilly terrain and she would arrive. “The ruin is quite expansive; you may wish to stock up on supplies before your lengthy trek through it.”

Her heart sank, “How lengthy, exactly?”

“A full day and a full night of nonstop, completely unobstructed walking will allow you to reach the deepest part of the ruins.” Kesh looked keenly at her, and she understood immediately what was unsaid.

Her passage would **not** be unobstructed, and several villages worth of Afflicted followers, who probably weren’t going to take kindly to the assassin in their midst, were going to be between her and her goal. That, in itself, was bad enough… but this was a Dwarven ruin; likely a citadel. Places like that tended to be full of still-active traps, and unfriendly automatons that took exception to intruders.

She eyed the Khajiit narrowly, “How do you know so much about Bthardamz?”

“Kesh knew Orchendor,” the Khajiit shrugged, “He's a Bosmer spell sword and an Overseer. Shepherd. Gathers the Afflicted, contains the festering wound. Orchendor and his Afflicted are meant to stand ready, awaiting Peryite's command."

“And now Orchendor is in there, and you are out here. What happened, exactly?”

“All was going well. We brewed Peryite’s ichor together, and soothed the Afflicted. Then, one night within Bthardamz, Orchendor woke from a dream sent by Vaermina. As Vaermina is one of Peryite’s enemies, it is no surprise that she interfered.”

“Vaermina… Vaermina… isn’t that the Daedric Prince of prophetic dreams and nightmares?”

“Correct.”

Kriivah pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the beginnings of a headache. This task was becoming a tangle of interfering and quarreling factions, which was rapidly rising beyond what one mortal, even an assassin, wanted to deal with. No wonder Sithis was entirely hands off of this mess.

“Vaermina sent Orchendor a dream,” Kesh continued. “Prophetic or simply a mere nightmare, I do not know. But Orchendor claimed he saw his own death in the Summerset Isles; an Altmer slaying him the instant he set foot upon the shores. That was the end of his obedience to Peryite. He drove Kesh away, claiming that it was some doing of mine that would result in his death.”

“What would happen if the Afflicted made it to Summerset, and spread the plague as Peryite wished?”

“Once the disease gained a foothold, and the Altmer began to fall, Peryite’s blessing would have dispersed from the Afflicted. Peryite is the one who gives the carriers support and succor during their suffering; prolonging their lives while Afflicted, but also giving them the strength to endure. As being partly of human blood, their bodies would have cleansed themselves of the plague as soon as their task was complete. As they are now, the blessing of Peryite will continue its slow progression to the end. Only by obeying his will, will it disperse.”

_So, get infected, do the Daedric Prince’s dirty work, and all is well…. for you. Get infected and refuse to spread it around, and suffer a slow, lingering death at the hands of some disease. Mass death of an island of strangers who may or may not be guilty of the Thalmor’s crimes, or mass death of several villages worth of people, all of whom you’ve known all your life. I am not sure which is worse. And I cannot say for certain which I would prefer myself._

Unaware of the werewolf’s grim thoughts, Kesh was continuing, “Perhaps his disobedience is his attempt to change a fate that may or may not happen, Kesh doesn’t know. All he knows is that Peryite has lost his patience, and has contracted Kriivah to handle the problem.”

“I have already agreed. I won’t back out now. But I will need supplies before I enter Bthardamz.” Kriivah got to her feet with a resigned sigh.

“There is an Imperial camp halfway to the ruins,” the Khajiit offered helpfully. “If you are clever enough to appear non-hostile, they may allow you to purchase supplies from them.”

The Breton considered as she pulled out her map. It **did** seem to be her best choice. The nearest town was Karthwasten, half a day’s walk in the opposite direction. The nearest city was a full day’s walk through Forsworn territory, also in the wrong direction.

Assassin or not, Kriivah knew better than to raid a Forsworn Camp. The Forsworn liked to worship in… old and ugly ways. Ways that made their meats highly suspect. Unless she could clearly identify what… or **_who_** … was in the food stores, Kriivah would rather buy from the Imperials.

Dressing in her basic fur armor, she walked along the path to the camp. She knew their lookouts spotted her the instant she came around the bend, and neither hurried nor hesitated on her path. Hailing them as soon as she was in hearing range, she was soon welcomed among the soldiers.

Gathering supplies was simple enough. Once she had greeted them openly and cheerfully, she was brought into the camp proper. Her story of being an adventurer was swallowed without a lot of questions thanks to her easily smiling face.

The quartermaster had everything she needed and she paid for everything with only a minimum of haggling. That he had overcharged her was a given; such was the price of convenience in the middle of nowhere. However, she was considered non-hostile; so while overpriced, everything she bought was in good condition.

She set off with a coin purse that was much lighter, but a travel bag that was reassuringly heavier.


	19. Chapter 19

Bthardamz. The exterior was built along strange lines; this was no city or fortress she had ever encountered. Architecture nowadays, whether it be Cyrodillic, Altmer, Nord or any other, was built along the lines of defense, with points where intruders could be caught in choke points and peppered liberally with arrows. This city’s entrance began with an unobstructed ramp leading straight up a long slope to a wall with an open gate arch wide enough for two carriages to pass one another.

Granted there wasn’t much cover to dive into, and nowhere to dodge except off the ramp to the ground below. The Dwarves were well known for their automatons, and Kriivah did not want to imagine the automaton that would thunder down this nice, straight avenue to meet an army of squishy, fleshy enemies in ancient days.

She made it to the top, surprisingly uncontested. Slipping past the outer wall, however, she nearly bumped noses with a pair of Afflicted on a slow, shambling patrol.

Their skin was flushed bright red, eyes were glassy and dazed, and movements were sluggish. Their bodies had thinned to a degree that gave them a gaunt, starving look.

“You picked a bad time to get lost, friend,” growled the male.

The female shuddered, then leaned forward and opened her mouth wide.

Kriivah’s wolf seized control and sent them diving forward, faster than the two could react. Her first poisoned dagger buried itself in the man’s throat.

There was a retching sound from the female, and the sound of liquid splattering to the ground. A flash of pity went through the assassin as she spun around. The woman was still doubled over, sucking in a wet breath and vomiting again. Viscous green liquid splattered thickly against the ground; the Afflicted apparently had a weapon of sorts, though spreading their disease in such a manner left them wide open to attack.

The woman turned, her eyes miserable but determined as she sucked in a third breath. Kriivah buried her other dagger in the woman’s left eye, dropping her instantly.

_Right. Lesson learned: they have a disgusting method of attack. Immunity or not, don’t let them vomit on you._ Kriivah wiped her blades clean, applied a new coat of poison, and moved on.

The Afflicted turned out to be fairly easy to bypass, as their guard patrols turned out to be slow and listless. The wasting disease drained them pretty effectively of any sort of energy. She was able to get to the front door with a minimum of fuss.

Inside, Bthardamz seemed to be a typical Dwemer ruin. The ancient civilization had harnessed the power of steam, resulting in machinery that still worked even millennia later. The hum of those machines combined with the hiss of steam made for a noisy, humid space full of pipes and spinning metal parts that smelled of oil and wet stone. The smell of illness and unwashed bodies also pervaded the place, making the whole olfactory experience… a bit on the ripe side.

Her wolf sneezed several times, and then pulled deeper into the recesses of her mind, reducing the assassin’s keen sense of smell to that of a normal human’s. A small relief.

The smell was bad enough on its own, but as she entered to ruin proper, her wolf quailed, and her heart sank. There were so many jugs that they lined the walls like macabre, overabundant decorations, each tall enough to reach her chest, and filled to the brim with the steaming green sludge. What Kesh had called incense, now looked to be disease made solid. If ever there was a question about whether disease could be weaponized… well… this answered the questions pretty thoroughly. Even one of these jugs, lobbed into a city proper by catapult, could utterly decimate the entire population.

_By the gods, how could they even transport all of this?_ She wondered silently. _There’s no border checkpoint that would allow this stuff to pass through. What is Peryite planning? A ship by night?_

Silently but fervently, she thanked Sithis, Ban Daar, and Peryite for her immunity. There was no way she, as a Breton herself, could have possibly avoided getting infected by the sheer volume of steaming ichor without help.

Further in, there were three Afflicted Bretons praying in a large room. Slipping from shadow to shadow, she eased closer, ears perked for their words.

The mixture of despair and fanaticism quickly became clear in the still air of the ruins.

A woman led the prayer, hands raised in supplication to an altar, liberally coated with the green sludge, "Peryite, heed our call if you deem us worthy. Our leader, Orchendor, has led us here and for that we are thankful. He has shown us that our suffering is not a punishment, but a blessing."

_Ew. Because that’s not creepy at all,_ the werewolf thought, not without a sense of irony.

To be fair, the devotion to Sithis and his Tenets **_was_** a kind of religion among the Dark Brotherhood, but these followers had gone well past the line of loyalty and straight into some really disturbed thinking patterns.

An Afflicted man joined in, "Yes, a blessing. For many months we have sought your guidance, yet we have heard nothing from you. If we do not please you, give us a sign so that we may understand why."

A third Afflicted jumped in eagerly, "Yes, a sign. We are lost without your guidance. Our prayers go unanswered, yet here we stand, not faltering in our belief that soon you will show yourself to us."

The male swayed, his expression contorted into a kind of pained ecstasy, "Yes, show yourself to us. Until that day, we will continue to devote our lives to you and suffer for you."

At that, all three intoned, "We suffer for you."

_Aaaand on that note, I am left to wonder whether they have taken **all** of the hallucinogens, or whether they have left some for the rest of us._

Kriivah slipped around them as they intoned their adulations to the green splattered altar. Beyond and through a heavy door, there was a large chamber with four Afflicted. These were more alert than their religiously fanatical brethren in the previous room and immediately charged.

The Breton released them from their pain with swift strokes of her poisoned blade, and then paused, head cocked. Her keen hearing told her that the fight had not drawn the attentions of anyone else, and took the moment to clean her blades, re-apply her poison, and sit down for a breather.

This was where things started getting…. strange. Green ichor had pooled on the ground in several places here, and there were signs that the liquid did strange things to more than just living flesh.

Some sort of plant had taken root. It was the same green as the ichor, and caught somewhere between a tree without leaves, and a multi-branching vine that was as rigid as oak. Where it didn't snake across the ground, it climbed the walls and coiled around pillars. The farther along she went, dodging Afflicted or putting them down as needed, the larger and more expansive the plants became. At one point, she passed a pillar of woven vines, clutching what looked like a pod full of glowing yellow-green seeds, each the size of a fist.

A small part of her wondered what kinds of alchemical poisons she could make with them. A very small part. A very, very, **_very_** small part. Kriivah skirted the thing without touching it, for the first time gravely wishing that she knew enough Destruction magic to burn the thing to a crisp. She did have a fire starting kit, but trying to burn a plant rooted in Peryite’s ichor seemed like a bad idea, especially indoors... with nowhere for the smoke to go but into her lungs.

As weariness began to set in, Kriivah acknowledged that it was time to find a place to sleep. Almost the moment she acknowledged this to herself, she found a door that led to what was clearly the living quarters for the people who now lived here.

"Are you asleep?” A woman’s voice spoke in the quiet, sounding tired and lost. She paused, and then continued, “I know you can't hear me, brother, but I don't like what we've become.”

Kriivah drew her bow as a precaution and slid through the shadows until she lurked right outside of a partitioned area with cots.

“We've been here so long and what do we have to show for it? Orchendor promised a place where we would be accepted and taken care of. He promised Peryite would be present at all times and give us comfort in our suffering.” The weariness in her voice was only confirmed a few seconds later, desperation and misery building as she spoke, “Forgive me for saying this, brother, but I have not felt Peryite's presence in a long, long time. I want out. I want to leave this place. I long for the fresh air of the Reach. This place only makes us sicker!” The woman’s voice broke in a soft sob.

The Breton bit her lip and slid carefully past the gap that made a small doorway to the sleeping area. Where the fanatics were guarding the entrance, the rest of the unfortunate populace was trapped inside. She couldn’t help but pity the people who had come here seeking hope and perhaps a cure, only to find themselves trapped.

“Bah… Who am I kidding? I know you wouldn't let me leave, brother. You truly believe in Orchendor and his lies. I know this place will eventually kill us. I have come to accept that. There is no other outcome to living in this deathtrap, surrounded by illness with neither guidance nor comfort in our misery.” Silence reigned as Kriivah cautiously explored for an area to sleep without being discovered. She found none. As she neared the far door, the woman’s final words echoed in her ears. “I will always regret the day we followed Orchendor to this gods-forsaken place."

It took some work, but the Breton eventually found a large set of pipes that soared well above the walkways where the Afflicted patrolled. Climbing carefully, she was soon settled in deep shadows afforded by the ceiling, and able to spread her bedroll to cushion her for sleep.

The next morning, Kriivah ate a cold breakfast of dried meat, figuring to fuel her wolf if necessary.

Climbing down and continuing on, she came upon a hallway where two… things… skittered about in imitation of curious exploration. Dwarven spider automatons.

Kriivah hung back warily. They weren’t intelligent per se: more like tireless, merciless and determined. In Hammerfell, she had come upon one that had been vigorously and tirelessly bashing at a metal gate, still trying to get in at the long deceased adventurer within. If the skeletonized remains were any indication, the things would attack the last place an enemy had been detected, even years after the enemy left or expired.

After watching them skitter back and forth in the confined space, she took aim with her bow and shot the first one, destroying it in a shower of sparks and a flare of electrical energy. The second spider spun around and rapidly clicked over to where its compatriot now lay in a spreading pool of black oil. A second arrow dispatched it and she checked the bodies curiously once they stopped spitting electricity.

Both contained a small soul gem, which she took to be the source of their power. Not bad; if one wanted a brainless, but dedicated automaton, one had to simply kill a rabbit or fox, trap its soul in a gem and use that as fuel. No telling how the soul fared during centuries of its existence being drained, bit by bit. She very deliberately did not think about the size of a soul necessary to fuel a man sized Dwarven Sphere, or a towering Centurion.

She made her way into a place that was called the Lower District, according to a plaque on the wall. Two more Dwarven Spiders down, and she entered a huge arena-like chamber with three Afflicted guards.

It wasn’t possible to sneak past them, she eventually realized, and they were far enough apart that one could raise an alarm. Her hip bumped something and she looked down. There was a lever. Her eyes darted to the center of the room. Then at the lever. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the lever and threw it.

Something came to life in the center of the room. From two parallel slits in the floor, spinning blades rose, unfurled, and cut down two of the Afflicted. Brutal, but effective. Grimacing, she shot down the third as she stood, gaping at her fallen companions. The spinning blades traveled back and forth a few times along the grooves, then folded their bloody blades again and sank into the floor.

_Right, watch for levers, pressure places, and strange holes in the walls or grooves in the floor. By the gods, I miss the Sanctuary._

Her trip was a mixture of death, stealth, and dodging automatons. At one point, an unfortunate Afflicted stepped on a pressure plate, which unleashed a Dwarven Sphere. A pipe in the wall opened, and a metallic ball was ejected onto the floor.

“Look out!” screamed another Afflicted, as the sphere, detecting the unfortunate Bretons and marking them as enemies, unfolded into a semi-humanoid form and attacked with spear-like arms.

The results were… not pretty. Several afflicted went down before one finally bashed the thing to scrap with something heavy.

Kriivah was able to use the battle as a way to get past and continue deeper into the citadel. She was just beginning to think of stopping before she got tired when she came upon a small hallway that led into a larger room.

Inside, a Bosmer was pacing slowly around, clearly distracted and muttering to himself. Kriivah’s wolf cautioned her to silence, and she agreed.

It was an important skill for an assassin to develop to size up your target and know what you can get away with, and what you cannot. Most of her targets weren’t particularly skilled beyond weapons and some brawling. The werewolf was both swift and deadly enough that exchanging a few words first would not cost her much of anything but time, as none could turn tail and flee fast enough. On a similar note most targets, while good enough in combat, generally did not consider the dangers of being sniped by a target they could not immediately see.

Eyeing the wood elf with a predator’s eye, Kriivah knew that this was not an opponent she could bandy words with. Bosmer were notorious for their skills in magic. Invisibility. Ice Spears launched from a distance. Teleportation. Immunity to most magics. They had a number of ugly little tricks that would give even a werewolf some difficulty.

And he was Afflicted, so there was also that disgusting, and otherwise treacherous skill of simply vomiting in her face. She would trust Peryite’s promise that it would not infect her, but ichorous green vomit to the eyes was not a pleasant way to be temporarily blinded, and thus vulnerable, to an enemy who would be making every effort to kill her.

_Strike first, talk later._

She watched the man’s agitated movements, noting that he would storm over to a table, glower down at it for several seconds, then whirl about and set to pacing again. Clearly the obsession of finding a way to avoid dying had consumed him so completely that he failed to realize that he was bringing about his doom in another fashion.

Kriivah drew her bow and pulled back the arrow, tip glistening with one of her many poisons. The bowstring’s creak was lost amid the humming of machinery. She drew a bead on him as he went back to his table, and loosed. He moved, yet another impatient attempt to whirl and pace some more. The blow to his spine missed by an inch, the poisoned tip finding home in between some ribs.

Orchendor screamed in agony and swiftly vanished in a swirling blaze of light. He reappeared seconds later on a higher level, snarling down at her as Restoration magic forced the arrow from his flesh. He knew teleportation. Delightful. She silently thanked Sithis that she had her penchant for poisons.

“Bitch,” he snarled, not realizing how accurate a statement that was, “You’ve made your last mistake.”

Kriivah leered at him, “Have I?”

She dodged an ice spear as long as her arm and circled the room beneath him, eyes locked on the Bosmer. Restoration was excellent for healing wounds and repairing damage. It was however, a chaser _after_ poisons. In other words, it could restore flesh after the poison had done its damage and the poison itself spent, but it could not touch the poison itself. And the man had one of Kriivah’s designer poisons roaring through his blood. It required a very specialized antidote. Without it, he had a minute, tops, left to live.

“Peryite had demanded your death Orchendor. He is no longer willing to be patient with you.”

“Peryite abandoned us! He promised we would be safe!” Kriivah darted behind a pillar as lightning arced toward her. There was a sudden gasp and the Breton took a risk and peered out.

Orchendor looked stricken, clutching his chest as he swayed, then toppled off the balcony to the floor.

“You would have been, if you had not fallen for one of Vaermina’s tricks.” Kriivah strode across the floor as the dying Bosmer looked up at her. “In trying to avoid your death, you simply changed the manner of it. Was it worth it, Orchendor? Was it worth it, knowing that Peryite waits to punish your soul?”

The Bosmer looked panicked, and reached toward her, feebly, as though to plead for help in his last moment, from his own killer.

_Forgive me Sithis,_ she thought. _This is one soul I cannot send to you. It has been spoken for._

She felt a touch on her shoulder; it was ghostly and faint. It felt like a hand, made of thin bones, resting briefly upon her flesh; cool and dry. Neither cold nor warm. Then the sensation was gone.

“By the will of Peryite, I fulfill my contract.” Kriivah drew her dagger, and struck with the speed of a snake, ending the Bosmer’s suffering.

Carefully wiping her blades clean and reapplying her poisons, the werewolf cocked her head to listen for the sounds of enraged Afflicted, but there was only the hum of Dwemer machines. She had done the job, and done the job well.

Kriivah found an elevator key on the dead elf’s body. Climbing to the balcony using a narrow ramp, and through a locked door, she found a large elevator. It was a matter of seconds to find the slot where the specialized key had to be inserted, and the elevator hummed to life around her. It was… some comfort that she had not been sent the long way out of some twisted sense of humor of Peryite’s; without Orchendor’s key, she couldn’t have used the elevator to get straight to the Bosmer.

Throwing the lever, she was soon taking a ride toward some much-needed fresh air. She found herself in a gazebo-like structure, hemmed in on all slides by what looked like narrowly spaced brass bars. A lever on the wall unlocked a grate, and allowed her to step out onto the semi-frozen ground.

She was on a ridge well above the Bthardamz entrance. There was no road; the terrain was left natural, but still provided a steep but serviceable way down to the ground. She came out near the Imperial camp, and gratefully accepted a hot meal in exchange for Septims. She set up her own small tent, a little to the side, and sank into an exhausted sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

The next morning, she paid for another meal by turning the stew in the camp pot into a savory meal, well-seasoned with Elves Ear. She figured a meal that restored magica to the camp mages and fortified the archery skills of the scouts would be a fair payment for the Imperials’ aid. By the surprised hums of pleasure as the men and women dug in, the taste was no loss either.

She gladly told the camp cook the ‘secret’ before setting out, figuring that no one would complain about travel rations that weren’t bland. It was time to head back to Peryite for her reward.

"The vapors are waning, but not yet gone. Take a breath. Peryite will speak if He sees fit." Kesh reassured her when she arrived.

The world spun dizzily and the giant Skeever padded into her line of sight.

“It is done. The contract has been fulfilled,” she told him.

"Well done, mortal! All things are in their order, and Orchendor roams the Pits. His betrayal will be punished, and your obedience is rewarded. Farewell mortal. You may return to your master’s service."

The haze intensified, and then coalesced into a sleek dagger with a black handle and a pale blade. It hovered for a moment, and then dropped to the ground at her feet.

The ghostly skeever faded away and once her vision cleared, she picked it up. The werewolf’s eyebrows shot up as she hefted it. The dagger felt light and swift in her grip, though the blade, made out of dragon bone, definitely kept a keen edge.

Eyeing the shimmer of magic, she was surprised again to see that the weapon was dual enchanted; paralysis and chaos damage. In short, the weapon had the potential to paralyze an enemy, or to cause fire, frost or shock damage. It was a fine blade, and a beautiful, deadly weapon in her arsenal. She would retire one of her poisoned blades in exchange for this one, she decided. One poisoned blade, one mage enchanted. An excellent pair.

Settling her new blade in a sheath at her hip, she paused. She still had money left over from Muiri’s job. Much of it had been spent getting supplies, but there should be enough for a special custom gift. Cicero had been quite diligent in treating her wolf with respect and emulating wolf behavior, minus some silliness. She _still_ couldn’t believe the ridiculous way he had baby talked her wolf while ruffling her fur.

Shaking her head, she took a detour to the city of Markarth and spoke with an Orc blacksmith. The blacksmith liked the design Kriivah outlined and agreed to work on the project, but warned that it would take a good part of the day. The price was worth the end result, and she carefully wrapped the gift before tucking it deep into her pack.

The long trip home was uneventful, and she spent her days and nights thinking of Cicero and feeling the bond between them growing stronger the closer she got to the Sanctuary. She would be home soon, and wouldn’t take any contracts for at least a few days.

The Breton was only a few minutes away when she was driven to her knees by the connection to Cicero blowing wide open. She could feel a rush of rage from the Imperial, followed by frantic fear and desperation.

A werewolf’s roar echoed in the near distance, and Cicero’s connection began to fade again at a rapid pace.

Kriivah broke into a run.

.

She flew down the steps into Sanctuary and nearly collided with a Dunmer woman. It took fancy footwork to avoid both crashing into the woman, and then to avoid falling on her backside while attempting to avoid the former.

“You must be Kriivah,” the woman said shortly. “I’m Gabriella. We haven’t had the chance to meet yet. Get inside. There’s been an incident with that Cicero fellow.”

“I gathered that from Arnbjorn’s roar,” the Breton hurried further inside, and found the rest of the Brotherhood gathered around the soft spoken Veezara.

The Argonian in question was collapsed onto his side, with Babbette kneeling over him, pouring a potion directly onto the wound.

"You're back. Good. You'll want to hear this," Astrid’s voice was curt, and she barely spared the werewolf a glance.

"Just try to relax, Veezara. Let the elixir do its work. You'll feel better, shortly." Babbette’s voice cracked with worry.

"Achh... Thank you, dear. You are most kind.” The Argonian sucked in a pained breath, “The jester's cut feels as bad as it looks, I'm afraid."

"Damn it, this never should have happened! We knew better. We knew better, and still we let our guards down. Agh!" Kriivah’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at Astrid’s exclamations. They were a little too… scripted.

Her wolf stirred and gave a low growl. Something was off here, and she didn’t like it one bit. Kriivah agreed, but wanted information before tearing off after Arnbjorn and Cicero.

_Assassins don’t live to adulthood by charging recklessly through the woods, after all._ She reminded her wolf, who subsided with green eyes blazing and ears perked.

They would have to trust that their dear Crow friend was as dangerous as he needed to be to stay alive until they could get to him.

"Gaius Maro is dead, I know, and that’s good. But we've got bigger problems right now!" Astrid continued, her eyes flicking to the Dunmer woman, who followed Kriivah back to the group.

_Gaius Maro? Who is Gaius Maro? What’s going on?_

"Gabriella mentioned something about Cicero..." the Breton prodded.

Astrid finally looked at her, eyes wide in feigned shock and anger, "The fool went absolutely berserk! He wounded Veezara, tried to kill me, and then he fled. I knew that lunatic couldn't be trusted."

The old mage, Festus Krex, confirmed it. "It's true, I'm afraid. Cicero was a little whirlwind, slashing this way and that. It would have been funny, if he weren't trying to murder us all."

Nazir sighed and crossed his arms, "Don't forget the ranting and raving. About the Night Mother, how she was the true leader of the Dark Brotherhood, and Astrid was just a pretender.”

_There’s more to it. What isn’t Astrid saying? What hasn’t she told the others? Cicero is damaged, certainly, but he was far more stable than this when I left._ Kriivah’s smooth face hid the thoughts that raced around in her head.

Her wolf nodded solemnly along with her thoughts, ears plastered back against her skull. _Astrid must have triggered him, somehow,_ her wolf replied.

Astrid turned a suddenly piercing stare on Kriivah, "Look, we've got to deal with this situation. **You've** got to deal with this situation."

“ **I** do?” The Breton asked mildly, and then something cold trickled down her spine.

The subtle shifts in the air of the cavern abruptly wafted Kriivah’s way, and Astrid’s scent had grown a great deal more unstable. There was something dangerous in her eyes, something paranoid and… obsessed. The Breton dared not question Astrid too closely. It was clear enough that Astrid was giving a command that would be obeyed, or Kriivah would end up on the Nord woman’s short list for her paranoia to focus itself on.

Her wolf flinched at the realization, and then slid up just behind the Breton’s eyes, steadying her against the sudden spike of fear. “Of course Astrid,” her voice had gone smooth again, though the wolf hid far enough back that the green did not fill her eyes this time, "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find that miserable little fool and end his life!” Astrid clenched her fist, then her expression softened to concern that was at least genuine, “But first... find my husband. Make sure he's all right. After the attack, Arnbjorn flew into a rage. When Cicero left... Arnbjorn went after him. They disappeared into the wild. He should have returned by now. They shouldn’t have gotten far. Either they did, or my husband is injured in a way that his werewolf status is having trouble with. I need you to find out if my husband is alive, and heal him if need be. Use the alchemy lab before you leave. Make whatever you think you will need.”

Kriivah nodded and started to turn away when the dangerous note reentered Astrid’s voice, “Search Cicero's room. Maybe there's something in there that sheds some light on where he might have gone.” It took a great deal of effort to keep her shoulders from tightening at the words. “Then? Track him down like the crazed fool he is and send his soul screaming to Sithis. I've got to see to Veezara, and calm everyone down."

"Bested by a fool. Who's the fool now, hmm?" Veezara gave his siblings a wry, toothy grin.

Babette shook her head, "Hush, Veezara. You were very brave. Astrid may well be dead if not for you."

The Nord woman nodded, "She's right. I'll be forever in your debt, dearest brother. Now be quiet. Just... just rest."

“No worries Astrid. It only hurts when I laugh. Hee hee hee. Owww..." The Argonian slumped to the floor in a dead faint, and an anxious Babbette uncorked another bottle of healing potion and poured it on his still sluggishly bleeding side.

Kriivah left them, eyes narrowed in thought. _Let’s see now, where are we at this point? Tenet I. Never dishonor the Night Mother. Astrid broke that one by telling me to crawl into her coffin. That the Dark Matron invited me in is moot; the order never should have been given. Tenet II. Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. I… don’t know. Not yet. I need to know who Gaius Maro is and what’s going on, on that front. Tenet III. Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. Hmm. I would say she violated that by refusing to send me out to Amaund Motierre in Volunruud. It’s been over a week since the Dark Sacrament was performed. I need to know what happened there._

Then something occurred to her.

_Gabriella. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of that Dunmer in the entire month I’ve been here. I don’t even know her scent all that well. There’s something concerning about having a Sister be a complete unknown to me, who mysteriously and coincidentally is never around when I am. And that… eagerness of Astrid’s to keep me away from Sanctuary by sending me off running ragged on lengthy jobs. Back to the Tenets. Tenet IV. Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. That is definitely broken._ Kriivah stopped outside of the Night Mother’s room with a twinge of fear. _She broke it by giving me the order. I already know the one place he will head to for safety, and I already know how to get in there. Am I breaking Tenet IV by obeying Tenet III?_

Her wolf whispered, _Astrid has violated the Tenets. She is no longer worthy of leading. She is violating Tenet V: Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister, by her own treacherous command to you. If you do not obey her, you are not violating Tenet III, because she is no longer your superior. Cicero is right: she is a pretender. However…”_ The wolf’s head tilted to the right. _Is it considered theft if you do not take Cicero’s journals with intent to steal, but with intent to give them to him? Obviously we cannot leave them where Astrid can get her hands on them._

_“Read the journals, my Listener.”_

Kriivah jumped and shot a shocked glance at the Night Mother’s coffin. Her wolf yelped, and then flicked her tail over her mouth in embarrassment.

_“Read them.”_ The Night Mother commanded again, _“I have been watching your wolf on her forays into dear Cicero’s mind. They will give you insight, and perhaps, help you do what must be done.”_

Tentatively, the Breton began to read. She watched Cicero grow from a youth into a grown assassin through the pages, noted the loss of contact from the other Sanctuaries, one after another. As time passed Cicero eventually became the Keeper, slew a Jester as his final contract, and retired his blade. The death of their last Listener, and the loss of contact from the Night Mother had sealed their fate. Then a span, of nearly ten years, where the poor Imperial had spent time alone with no one to talk to, and his descent into madness.

Here was where The Jester came into being, whispering, promising, goading Cicero. The Imperial’s writing went from steady to a child-like scrawl, similar to his welcome note left on her bed. His last three journal entries caught her eyes, and she bit her lip as she read over them.

**4th of First Seed**

> **The Dawnstar Sanctuary is home! As I had dared hope! Cool and dark and lovely. My Sanctuary, Sanctuary from all. I know its every corner, every hall, every shadowed nook and alcove. My Sanctuary. The guardians know me, recognize me as Keeper. They leave poor Cicero alone. The big ugly beast - a different story. He'd eat me if he could, but to bind me, grind me, he'd need to find me. And Cicero will make sure that does not happen. For I have Sanctuary! Sanctuary from all.**

**13th of First Seed**

> **The Sanctuary is safety, and salvation. But silent, so silent. I give my love to the Unholy Matron. I give my laughter freely. But I do not hear her. The silence has returned. Now that I am laughter, and no longer hear laughter, I once again hear the silence. The silence of the Void. It reached across time and space. Its silence is deafening, once more.**

**1st of Rain's Hand**

> **Mother and Keeper must go. I am not the Listener, and never will be. But I am the Keeper. I must serve my Mother's will above my own. I must find her Listener. I must teach Astrid the error of her ways, the beauty and necessity of the Old Ways. I have sent the letter to Astrid. We leave soon. But Cicero will keep this Sanctuary as his Sanctuary! A place to rest and ply my trade, for I once more take up the blade, and send some lucky souls to Him, when laughter strikes, as fits my whim!**

He truly had gone back to Dawnstar. It was his only option, the only place he had a chance to hole up and keep safe from Arnbjorn. But Dawnstar was a long, long way away. A week by slow cart horse.

_Unless… Unless he drove the horse at full speed. A plodding horse pulling a carriage only travels a little faster than a human could walk. I bet a pursuing werewolf is motivation for even the laziest of beasts to kick up his heels and go like the wind. I need a horse, or I need to shift. Or… something._

She tucked the journals into a pack and headed deeper into the sanctuary to begin brewing her potions, only to be intercepted by Astrid, even as the Dunmer, Gabriella, was taking her own leave on some new errand.

“Have you learned where the madman and my husband may be heading?” the Nord woman asked, without preamble, distracting the Breton from watching the Dunmer go.

“Yes. I’m going to the Dawnstar Sanctuary,” Kriivah said shortly.

"The Dawnstar Sanctuary?” Astrid’s eyebrows rose, “That place has been abandoned for a long, long time. I’m not even sure anyone knows the passphrase anymore.”

“I do.” Kriivah reassured her, “It was where I was headed before finding out that the Brotherhood had moved here.”

“Good. You need to leave. Pack whatever you need, brew whatever poisons you wish, and go. Every moment counts, so I want you to take my horse. His name is Shadowmere. You'll find him outside, at the pool. Let's just say he's... one of us. He'll speed your passage to Dawnstar. Find Arnbjorn. Make sure my husband's all right. And then, send that jester's twisted little soul to the Void, in as many pieces as possible."

Kriivah sprinted to her Alchemy lab, snatching ingredients off her shelves and mixing them with brisk efficiency. She poured the resulting potions into their respective bottles, and tucked them into a pouch at her hip, still hot from simmering.

She stepped out of the Sanctuary into late evening, with the sky fading to black and the gibbous moons beginning their ascent.

There was a loud bubbling noise, and her head snapped around to face a shallow pool, barely deep enough to wet someone’s ankles. The water turned an inky black, rimmed with dark purple light. As she approached the water, there was the sound of splashing hooves. There was a crack, like thunder, and a loud whinny. The black, bubbling water abruptly fountained upward, and pure black horse with blazing red eyes erupted from the water and landed on the bank of the pool, shaking his mane and turning to look the werewolf in the eyes. The two connected briefly, and the demon horse nodded his great head and turned so she could take the saddle.

The horse obeyed her touch, and set off for the roads at a full gallop, tirelessly pounding in the direction of Dawnstar. Kriivah had to admit that she was impressed. It had only taken a couple of hours, tops, for her to do her business in the Sanctuary and set off down the road. At the breakneck pace the supernatural beast set, the loss of time was nearly nullified.

Needing neither rest, nor food, the terrain flew by beneath Shadowmere’s hooves, and a trip that would have taken longer than a week on foot or by slow carriage, was finished in a night. They flew past Whiterun, up past the Loreius farm where Cicero and Kriivah had met, turned at the Weynon Stones and entered the snowy north end of Skyrim. Kriivah and the wolf considered slowing the stallion as the roads turned icy, but the horse snorted, shook his head, and kept going, barely slackening his pace. The horse remained surefooted on the icy road, kicking up chunks of frozen earth in their wake.


	21. Chapter 21

It wasn’t until they neared Dawnstar that the demon horse whinnied sharply and turned off the road, skirting the town, passing a place that the map told them was Nightcaller Temple, and slowing to a stop in the middle of seeming nowhere.

But the wolf had caught the scent that had drawn the demon horse, and her glowing green eyes narrowed in fury. Cicero’s cart horse lay in a pool of blood and... other things, having been eviscerated by Arnbjorn’s claws. The poor mortal beast had probably foundered at being driven so mercilessly by Cicero and the understandable terror of the roaring werewolf at the horse’s heels.

 The snow here was scuffed up. Signs of a fight, and blood; other than the horse’s there was also werewolf and human, which told the tale. Her clever Crow had made it this far before he had been forced to fight back. And things had gotten ugly.

The blood trails led around the city, to the place where Arnbjorn now sat, slumped in the snow, bleeding from a wound in the side. He was only a few yards away from the Sanctuary door. Whether the injury had weakened him into returning to human form, or he had shifted back in an attempt to heal it, didn't matter. He was still clearly too weak to do any more fighting.

“Should have figured Astrid would send you,” Arnbjorn managed to dredge up a sneer for old times’ sake.

Kriivah eyed him for a split second, and then knelt down next to him, digging into her pouch and producing a now cooled healing potion. “You're hurt…”

“Ha! What gave it away?” he grinned wolfishly, then gave a ragged laugh. "Yeah, I’ve got to admit that little jester is good with that butter knife. But don't worry, I have as good as I got. He’s in there! Through the door.” Arnbjorn pointed unnecessarily, his hand wavering badly before dropping. Kriivah’s wolf could see and smell Cicero’s blood leading into the Sanctuary, but chose not to insult the Nord by stating how obvious it was. “It’s some old Sanctuary, by the looks of it. I would have followed him, but I don't know the phrase."

“I know the phrase. I'll get Cicero; you drink this health potion and go home.” She pressed the bottle into his hands. He eyed it briefly, suspicious, but she offered him a grim smile, “No tricks. No nasty surprises. It will heal you, I promise. If we settle our differences, it will be in a proper fight.”

Arnbjorn knocked it back, and his expression relaxed a little as the wound began to close, “All right, you convinced me. Doubt I'd be much good to you anyway. The little fop cut me pretty deep. But I slashed him good. May have even severed an artery if I’m lucky. Don't know what you're going to find in there... but you can probably just follow the blood."

The Breton nodded and approached the door.

“What is life’s greatest illusion?” came the unearthly whisper from the door.

“Innocence, my brother.”

“Welcome home.”

The black door closed behind Kriivah and she glanced warily around to make sure she wasn’t going to be ambushed right at the front door. That concern was quickly put to rest; a trail of blood led deeper into the Sanctuary. Arnbjorn really had gotten him good.

_Let me finish the hunt,_ the wolf rumbled.

Not bothering to hide her surprise, Kriivah asked, _You?_

_Yes. He is my Crow friend…. And hopefully, your mate. It is time for the inevitable end to the hunt. I have run, and he has pursued. Now it is time to catch him._

_Who says wolves don’t have a sense of romance?_ Kriivah grinned.

The wolf snorted, and did not answer. Kriivah double checked that she still had the bottles tucked into her pouch. Yes, they were still there: the faint slosh of liquid inside was music to her ears. Then she slid back and let the wolf take over.

As she eased further in, Cicero’s familiar voice called out; “Listener! Is that you? Oh I knew you'd come. Send the best to defeat the best.” He gave a faint chuckle. “Astrid knew her stupid, overgrown, sheep dog couldn't…” his voice broke and the next words were hissed through teeth in pain, “...slay sly Cicero.”

The wolf in Breton’s skin moved slowly, keeping her footfalls silent and shooting the ghostly sanctuary guardians from a distance with her bow. Now was not the time to be sloppy; she needed to be able to get to him and she couldn’t do that if she charged in without thinking.

“Oh, but this isn't at all what Mother would want.” The jester continued, “You kill the Keeper or I kill the Listener? Now that's madness.”

Through a short tunnel, there was a wooden bridge. Her eyes flicked to the ground and saw a pressure plate. Carefully, she extended a leg ahead of her and stepped sharply on the plate, then leaped back.

There was a click and a delayed _sssshhunk_ as several steel spikes shot out of the wall ahead of her on the bridge. An unlucky fool who stepped on the plate and kept going, or perhaps, dove forward in hopes of being missed, would have landed themselves directly in the path of those spikes.

"Ouch! Pointy pointy! My home is well defended, Listener. I always have been a stickler for details. Get it? 'Stick-ler.' Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, I slay me!"

Kriivah groaned silently.

“Jester, come out.” The wolf called, “You only delay the inevitable.”

There was another pained hiss from somewhere ahead. “Cicero thinks not. Clever Kriivah is on the hunt, and what kind of prey would Cicero be if he comes willingly to her hand? No, no, if Cicero is to be hunted, then Kriivah must be a professional assassin and do what she and her wolf were born to do.”

Down a set of stairs and at the bottom she spotted a trip wire. Freezing, she traced the rope with her eyes and saw four fire pots at the ceiling. Cautiously leaning forward, she spotted the rainbow slick that covered the ground.

Clever. If she were to foolishly run after him, she would find herself in the middle of an oil slick that would turn into an inferno, with two more sanctuary guardians waiting to polish off whatever the fire failed to terminate. Well, she wasn’t prone to rushing, so…. She tripped the wire, and stood back as the pots plummeted to the floor. The rushing roar of the flames almost drowned out the shocked cries of the ghostly guardians.

A bit further and she found herself in a dim hallway.

“You're... still alive. Cicero respects the Listener's abilities, of course, but could you at least slow down a bit? I'm not what I used to be. Heh.” The blood trail was growing heavier, which could only mean the man was bleeding even more heavily.

“Afraid not. As much as I enjoy matching wits against a Crow, the thrill of the hunt must end at some point,” the wolf murmured, though she wasn’t sure whether the Keeper was close enough to hear from whatever hidden spot he was currently observing from.

More hallways and a locked door. It would have been a dead end, if the wall hadn’t been smashed open and an ice tunnel hadn’t been dug.

"Brrr! Chilly! You'll enjoy this. Not an original part of the Sanctuary, per se. Let's call it a 'forced addition.' Forced by what? Oh, come and see!"

The floor was littered with bones and the half eaten remains a goat. A troll’s grunts made the wolf lift the Breton’s head and peer into the shadows. There. There it was. The black fur made it blend, but the creature’s three golden-green eyes drew the eye in the dim light, where they glowed like candles. A poisoned arrow to the face put the creature down.

 This place was a royal mess.

“Cicero, did you truly try to break the Fifth Tenet?” the wolf called.

“No! No! Cicero didn’t… Well…” Cicero’s pained voice ground to a halt from what seemed to be just ahead of her. “All right,” he took a deep, agonized breath, “so Cicero did attack that harlot, Astrid! But what's a fool to do, when his mother is slandered and mocked? Violated the First Tenet she did! She did! The Pretender said that the Night Mother’s mummified remains were good for nothing but kindling to keep her arse warm on a cold night, and that Cicero should accept that the Old Ways were gone.” His voice sounded a little desperate. “Surely the Listener understands why Cicero went a little… crazy?!”

She nodded slightly. So that was why Cicero had attacked. And, as she suspected, Astrid had triggered him. Astrid would pay, but later.

 Down a hall, to a pair of doors.

“And now we come to the end of our play. The grand finale.” Kriivah’s heart dropped as Cicero made a pained noise from the other side and wet cough. She heard the splatter of someone spitting liquid, likely blood, onto the floor.

Through the doors, she found Cicero laying on low platform, on his side, clutching his wound, and surrounded by blood. If anything, he looked worse than Arnbjorn… of course, he didn’t have the werewolf’s healing abilities.

Kriivah tried to stifle a gasp of dismay within the wolf’s mind. The man looked so vulnerable; so… at odds with the lively man who cracked jokes and played with his ebony dagger as though it were a child’s toy.

The wolf kept her distance warily, watching for any sign of the weapon. Even now, the man could pull a last ditch strike that would ruin her day. It took several confused seconds for her to realize that he was unarmed.

She had never seen him without his ebony dagger.

Never.

Sweeping the room with her eyes, she realized that his blade was on the ground next to her, out of his reach and inaccessible to any but the most desperate of lunges. She could only guess that he had weakened enough to have lost his grip on the thing, and didn’t have the strength to pick it up again. That, more than anything, frightened them both and drew the wolf’s whine from her still human throat.

“You caught me! I surrender!” he wheezed, then gave a weak laugh, acknowledging how pointless surrender would be at this point. “But killing me would be a mistake! Oh yes. You would displease our mother, hmm? You wouldn’t want our Dark Matron to be without her Keeper, would you? _Listener?_ ”

The wolf narrowed the Breton’s eyes slightly at the emphasis he placed on her title. Perhaps desperation, pain and blood loss made him think that they had forgotten the Night Mother’s voice.

“It is not the Listener who comes for you today, Cicero.”

His eyes widened in shock when he saw that her eyes were filled with green, and that he was speaking to the wolf, not to the Breton. “The wolf? Why the wolf?” Then his mouth fell open; “Has Cicero discovered a secret? Does the wolf do all the hunting?”

“No.” The wolf gave him a predatory smile. “Just you.”

“May Cicero suggest another ending to this dance? You could just walk away! Let poor Cicero live! Tell the Pretender, Astrid, you did the job! Stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero! One little itty bitty lie!” Cicero looked up at her with his now dark eyes; almost black… like Nazir’s. They were also oddly lucid now that he as bleeding out in a dark Sanctuary, far away from home.

The pair gave him a tight smile. “We don't strangle or drown our victims, Cicero. You know that.”

He let out a long breath, and his expression turned bitter. “No. No you don’t. Do what you will, then. Cicero has no fight left. In the end, Sithis will judge us both.”

“Hm. Is that an offer?” The wolf murmured, pulling a bottle out of a pocket and giving the contents a light swirl to undo any separation the ingredients might have experienced. She wanted the bottle at full potency when she used it. “ ‘Do what I will….’ I admit, that is quite… tempting.”

“Oh, does the deadly wolf plan to bless poor, humble Cicero with one of Kriivah’s deadly poisons?” The man was watching her with weary delight, “To be honest, Cicero didn’t think that he would be granted such an honor as to go out with the taste of the clever, deadly Listener’s notorious mixtures.”

“You are daft in ways I can’t even fathom,” the wolf rumbled, and shook her head in bewilderment. “To think anyone would be so eager to drink one of her concoctions, especially knowing where her talents lie.”

Cicero gave a little laugh, and then winced, “If Cicero is destined to travel to the Void, he will gladly--ulp!”

Stepping forward, the wolf had pulled the cork out and knelt next to him, one hand lifting his chin ever so slightly, the other pressing the bottle to his lips.

Blessed silence fell as the red liquid poured past his lips and into his mouth. He swallowed automatically, eyes startled and staring into the glowing green eyes as she kept the bottle pressed firmly to his mouth.

“Drink it,” she ordered, putting on a stern and commanding scowl. “All of it.”

The pain was leaving his face, and Kriivah felt something inside her loosen. His gaze sharpened, apparently spotting the relief as she knelt over him. Then the wolf’s eyes suddenly narrowed.

“I have a different sort of death in mind for you… Jester.” The growl in her voice deepened briefly, looking past the man at something deep inside him.

Kriivah jolted in shock when she saw something in his eyes… a sickly green… something that moved abruptly and disappeared.

_“There you are!”_ The wolf snarled suddenly, and Kriivah gasped as the wolf plunged into the connection between them, and left the Breton, feeling very human and suddenly alone inside her own head.


	22. Chapter 22

Cicero yelped and sagged backward into his own thoughts as Kriivah’s wolf was suddenly inside him again, growling, sniffing, seeking. She was casting about, on the prowl for something.

Suddenly there was a scream in his mind, and The Jester appeared, falling backward, with the wolf’s teeth sunk into his arm.

“You dare?!” Shrieked the Jester, “You dare strike out at the gift from the Night Mother? Do you, too, insult her by striking out at her gift?”

“You? A gift from the Night mother?” The wolf demanded; releasing her hold on The Jester’s arm, to sneer as only a wolf can.

Cicero stared at The Jester’s arm, which was bleeding a strange, sluggish green ichor… a darker green that the sickly glow that still surrounded the man. How could The Jester bleed? He was the embodiment of Cicero’s own broken psyche, wasn’t he?

“Yes!” The Jester blustered, “I! Am! A gift! From the Night Mother!”

“You?” Incredulous, scathing.

“Yes!” Desperation gave way to seemingly righteous fury.

“You...” Coldly dismissive now. “All right, ‘Night Mother's gift...’ ” the wolf rocked her head mockingly with every word, “If you truly are from the Void, answer for me a question.” Her eyes grew crafty, and deeply menacing. Cicero knew instantly that her words were a trap. “Just one! A single, itty bitty, insignificant question. Answer to my satisfaction, and I will believe you.”

The Jester drew himself up haughtily and flicked imaginary dust from his jester’s suit, almost dismissively. Strange… He seemed unaware of the danger of her words. If he was part of Cicero, he should have been made aware of the danger the instant Cicero was. Something wasn't right.

The Jester smirked at the wolf, “Ask away, wolfie. All that is part of Cicero, is part of me.”

“We were once inside the Night Mother’s coffin. Close. Oh so close to her ancient, cold bones, that we warmed them with our body. So close, that we grew quite intimate with the Night Mother’s scent. Ancient death, leathered flesh, and preservative oils.” The wolf took a single step toward The Jester, eyes burning with green fire that flickered and danced, “Answer me this, Jester… If you are truly from the Void and the Night Mother, then why do you smell like Peryite’s ichor?”

The Jester stumbled back from the wolf, spluttering, incoherent, babbling in fragmented sentences as the wolf began to close in on him. Cicero drew back from The Jester in shock. He hadn’t dared question The Jester too deeply for fear of violating the Tenets. Now he felt that he had made a terrible mistake, allowing it to feed on him, and growing fat while tormenting him for so long.

The wolf snarled, “You are no gift from the Night Mother. You are no gift from the Void.” Her tail flicked lazily, as though acknowledging a point; “Oh certainly, there’s a whiff of true, genuine madness here, but that’s what happens to a man who is lost and alone for a decade. But you?” Her teeth were bared all the way to the gums, milk white and ridiculously sharp, “You smell like a parasite that found an open wound and crawled up inside a vulnerable man. You, who tormented Cicero for years, prevented him from healing, keeping him trapped and lonely inside of himself. I am the Cure for this Madness; the true sending of the Night Mother! My hunt is at its conclusion, and you? You die by my fangs!”

The wolf struck, faster than Cicero could track. There was a red and white furry blur, and then her white fangs were in The Jester’s throat. There was a strangled sound, The Jester turned into a strange, white worm of some sort; sickly pale like dead, drained flesh or a vampire’s skin after a century of darkness. Then he popped like a bubble and disappeared, his green glow winking out.

There was a sharp, unpleasant jab of pain within Cicero’s head that blanked out his vision for an instant, and then suddenly something was unspooling inside him. Uncoiling. A tension that he hadn’t even been aware of was loosening and becoming like water. Parts of him, consumed by the worm, were returning to the places that had been left raw and bleeding and hurting.

Then the lukewarm energy surged over him again. He felt several clicks in rapid succession as the pieces of himself returned to their rightful places, and were gently surrounded by the supporting energy. His body was flooded by the feel-good ache.

Cicero reached out to embrace the warm fur that brushed against the insides of his thoughts. His hands connected. The ghostly wolf presence in his head was real! Was solid! She was there! No elusive, gibbering, glittering, seductive madness pranced in this thoughts. He was whole! He was… himself! ALL of himself!

The wolf had sought, had hunted, had found and retrieved all that belonged to him. As a true assassin should, she slew her prey and returned with the spoils of her hunt. And she had given them back to him.

He felt the caress of a warm, wet tongue along his cheek, and the wolf’s voice murmured, “Welcome to the pack, Cicero, my Crow.”

“Is...is Cicero…. Am… Am I truly cured?” he murmured.

The wolf hesitated. “I would not say ‘cured.’ I would say, ‘cleansed of infection.’ There is still a lot of damage within you. But you are now capable of healing, and with us at your side, you will get better. Come. Let us return to the real world.”


	23. Chapter 23

Cicero was laying passively on the ground before her, attention drawn inward. The first bottle was empty, and Kriivah tossed it casually aside and gently pulled Cicero’s hand away from the wound. Watching the flesh knit without a scar was rather gratifying, if unusual considering her talent was in poisons, not healing potions. Still, as a master in Alchemy, watching her handiwork in motion was a pleasure whether it was someone gasping their last, or watching a poor, crazed man’s wounds vanishing before her eyes.

Weariness began to creep in on her. She hadn’t slept since the night before returning to Falkreath Sanctuary. She hadn’t eaten since noon the previous day. She had spent all yesterday traveling, and all night riding a demon horse at full speed through the countryside. Now she had spent all morning following Cicero to the end of the chase. Even werewolf stamina had its limits.

Cicero blinked, and suddenly he was back, eyes boring into hers with bewildered relief.

The wolf was also back, and yawned deeply at the back of her mind. _I am going to press myself flat, and let you handle the rest. Don’t wake me for anything short of Astrid’s demise._

Her wolf promptly succumbed to exhaustion. Kriivah didn’t feel that far behind, honestly.

She pulled out another healing potion and pressed it to his lips. “Drink again.” This time there was no hesitation from him, and she could hear his breathing easing.

His hand slipped up to hold the bottle himself, and Kriivah allowed him to take control of it, edging away to give him a more respectful berth now that his strength was nearly back to normal.

“Your body will ache with phantom pains from the places where your wounds have healed for about a day, and you will feel a slight but persistent tiredness until you get a good sleep,” she instructed him. “I suggest you stay here for that. There’s no place safer for you at the moment.”

The silence extended beyond Cicero’s tossing the empty bottle aside, as he simply stared at her in wonderment for a moment. Then, quietly, he commented, “Kriivah’s… I mean… Your wolf called me a crow.”

The Breton gave him a tired, sheepish smile, “Yeah, well, that’s part of Bosmer mythology. The wolf is a hunter, killer, and responsible pack member. The wolf’s closest friend is the crow; a trickster, jester,” Cicero’s eyes widened slightly, “cunning hunter and fellow killer. My teacher told me about them after I melded souls with my wolf, and told me that the Wolf’s best friend is the Crow. The day we met, my wolf said you had the spirit of the Crow within you. The more we helped you, the more we both felt it was right to keep doing so.”

“Cic--- Ah… **I** am not a were...crow.”

“No, no, of course not. In your case, it’s more… hmm. How to describe it... Your mannerisms; the way you move; the way you think. Little things that are **like** a crow. Little things that attract the wolf.” Kriivah wondered if she were making sense at all or if her exhaustion was just making her babble nonsense.

“So… kindly Renae truly wanted… me… all this time.”

Kriivah swallowed at her real name being spoken, “I did. And my wolf did too. But the only way we could work was if you learned some of the wolf’s ways. It was, I suppose, one way to get you to chase after us the way we wanted you to.”

“Hmm, there seems to be a bit of trickster in _you_ ,” Cicero smirked, “to so cunningly nudge a poor, innocent Keeper into position.”

Kriivah gave a small snicker, “Innocent, Cicero? You?”

“But of course!” The Imperial put on an angelic expression, “How could this face hide devious intentions?”

Kriivah propped her chin on her hand and simply raised her eyebrows at him. His angelic expression wavered as a laugh fought to the surface, and he quickly gave it up. It was a good laugh. No longer crazed, high pitched giggling, but warm, rich and masculine.

Chuckling and shaking her head, the werewolf started to get to her feet. “If I ever believe that, I’m sure the Thieves Guild would be overjoyed to sell me a bridge on Masser.”

Cicero’s hand darted out and caught her wrist. “And where do you, devious little werewolf, think you’re going?” He was wearing that over-the-top scowl again. “You’re not thinking of escaping punishment for manipulating the Night Mother’s Keeper…are you?”

_This again?_ Amusement rolled through her. “Actually I was thinking of making something to eat for the two of us, but if you’d rather…”

The intimidating scowl faltered, and the Breton stifled a giggle as hunger for her cooking waged war against whatever he had had in mind. Deciding to fight dirty, she closed the distance between them, slid her arms gently around him and kissed him. The Imperial’s arms immediately slid around her as he returned the kiss.

“You are being devious again,” Cicero scolded when they came up for air.

“Mmm, maybe. Then again, I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday, and haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. You’re covered in blood, worn out from healing, and haven’t eaten in twelve hours or more yourself. We both need to bathe, eat and sleep, not necessarily in that order. We have privacy, and if we can find a tub, we can both get clean. I also have a bedroll that I’m willing to share.”

Cicero went still. “If you are trying to bribe me into delaying your punishment… it’s working.”

She gave him a weary but satisfied smile. “If I get the fire and food going, will you get a kettle for heating water for the bath?”

The Keeper cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again. “It’s working very well, indeed.” He released her and scampered off into the dark, returning with a heavy looking kettle full of water gathered from some unknown source and set it over the fire.

The food was simply some of her travel rations, but the dried meat softened nicely into stew with a few seasonings and a few potatoes. While the stew simmered, the pair hauled the now steaming cauldron into a room that Cicero had found during his previous visit. The bath wasn’t much more than a scrubbing with the heated water, though both felt much better in clean clothes.

The pair barely finished eating before crawling into Kriivah’s bedroll. The Imperial was out the instant his head hit the pillow; Kriivah wasn’t very far behind.


	24. Chapter 24

The werewolf woke up for the second time to Cicero curled around her. The air outside the bedroll had cooled with the fire banked, but it was by no means freezing. Gently disengaging his arms from around her, she stoked the fire to heat the room and to start breakfast.

She shivered slightly until the room began to warm. It was strange being in normal clothes instead of armor; she could only guess that she had grabbed them in her exhausted haze as something simple to put on before bed.

Her lips quirked into a slight smile. It was almost like they were… normal people. Here, now, no expectations, no demands; just two people spending time together.

The Dawnstar Sanctuary was rather lean on supplies, so it would have to be leftovers from her pack for breakfast. Or… well… whatever time it was. She had no way of knowing; the place lacked windows, being underground and all. They would have to get plenty of supplies from the city before they could return to Falkreath. And Cicero would have to wait for her at the Inn, she decided.

As she dug through her pack, her hand brushed the wrapped bundle from Markarth. A smile came to her lips and she set it on an age worn table that had been left behind when the Sanctuary had been abandoned. She would give it to him after they ate.

A few more pieces of wood were added to the fire to further warm the room. She heard the faint rustle of the bedroll a moment before Cicero murmured into her ear. “My Listener is surprisingly easy to sneak up on. You should be more alert, in case of attack.”

“We’re the only ones here,” she reminded him. “And who says you ‘snuck up’ on me?”

Cicero chuckled, “You are remarkably calm for someone who hasn’t been punished for being devious.”

“You’re still on about that?” Her eyebrows raised.

Cicero chuckled again. “Of course! Your bribe did nothing more than delay your punishment.”

The Breton noted that he hadn’t grabbed her or cornered her yet, so she turned to face him with a small smirk. “All right, let’s hear your proposed ‘punishment’ then.”

“Well, I got an interesting idea after talking to some dog breeders…” His smile turned downright predatory. “What happens if I find _just_ the right spot on my Listener’s belly?”

Her drowsing wolf snapped alert as though she had been shocked. Kriivah gaped at him for an instant, and then began backing away as quickly as she could. She sputtered, then yelped; “My leg will NOT start to kick!”

Cicero followed, still grinning evilly, matching her step for step, “So you say... Nevertheless, you are also trying to escape, so something interesting seems to be likely. I think I should experiment… for posterity.”

“For post--?!” the Breton started incredulously, then spun and bolted with a very un-werewolf-like squeal as the Imperial lunged for her.

His laughter echoed off the walls as she fled for the nearest hallway, with him in hot pursuit. His sing-song taunt came to her ears as she scrambled into the shadows, “I know this Sanctuary better than yooouuu doooo!”

_True._ She admitted ruefully to herself. _But I’m not letting you put_ _that punishment into action without making you work for it._

Her wolf came to the surface, helping to increase her speed and widen the gap between her and the pursuing Keeper.

An idea flashed into Kriivah’s scrambling thoughts, making the wolf grin within her. _The troll dug ice tunnel! There’s bound to be… ahh yes!_

In the roughhewn tunnel, a thick layer of snow lay on the ground. Scooping up a double hand full, she packed it as quickly as she could before Cicero rounded the corner.

“Peek-a-boo, I see—“ The Imperial was halfway into the troll’s room before he saw Kriivah’s diabolical grin and tried to skid to a stop on the icy floor without also falling. “Ack! Listener, don’t you dare throw tha—“

Paff.

The snowball struck him dead center in the chest as he struggled to regain his balance. Down he went, into a shallow drift.

_I’m in soooo much trouble, right now!_ The Breton thought, giggling, but taking advantage of the precious few seconds this would afford her.

It had been a long time since she had enjoyed pure, silly, play. Grinning, she fled to another area of the Sanctuary, searching for a hiding space. There wasn’t much in the next room, save for a long extinguished brazier tucked into a dark corner. It would have to do.

She darted behind it and crouched low, peeking back the way she had come.

“Listener, Listener, Listener. You’re only making it worse for yourself.” Cicero’s voice held a hint of threat in it. He entered the room, dusting snow off of his tunic, eyes sweeping. His gaze settled on the brazier and began to close in on her hiding place, eyes fixed on the shadows she was huddled in.

Kriivah waited until almost the last moment, and then dove for the largest gap between the Keeper and the wall.

The Imperial cackled, and his arm swept up to pin her to the wall. “Surrender, my Listener,” he murmured, leaning close to crowd into her personal space, “and I will be merciful.”

“Merciful? Surrender? Seriously? My Keeper…” she leaned forward as much as she was able and brushed her lips against his cheek. “... what in the world would ever convince me to willingly be at your version of ‘mercy’?”

“Mmm. Honestly, I’m not sure. Then again, do you see any other options right now?” He grinned and playfully nipped at the tip of her nose.

“As a matter of fact…” Kriivah slumped slightly, as though in defeat. Then she flashed him a wicked grin, “... yes!”

He had his arm across her chest, but her hands were free. Kriivah’s hands darted out and she promptly pantsed him.

Cicero yelped, losing his grip on her as she dashed sideways, leaving him to struggle to pull up the trousers.

“Naughty, naughty, werewolf! I know Telekinesis!” There was a tingle of magic and she felt something unseen give her rear a playful swat.

The Breton squawked in mock outrage, but kept going.

“Yes, run,” Cicero’s voice echoed to her, “But I will still catch you, eventually.”

She needed a better hiding place, but the sound of footsteps behind her egged her onward. The Sanctuary seemed full of nooks and crannies, but none that would offer more than a passing chance at hiding. Worse, though there was a way to flee in a loop, and lead him on a merry chase, the doorway was barred, and the way to unbar it was behind her. She would have to somehow bypass Cicero to get to it.

Not a chance.

She fled into yet another room, its use unknown. There was the other side of the barred door ahead and to the left. She was running out of space to flee in the Sanctuary, when the barred door opened and Kriivah skidded to a stop.

_Close! Too close! How did he get ahead of me?!_ She could no longer hear the footsteps behind her, though they had been pounding along the instant before the door ahead of her had opened. _Damn it, he fooled me by using Telekinesis to imitate footsteps._

The grinning assassin pounced. The Breton leaped backward frantically, somewhat off balance by her desperate attempt to change direction despite her forward momentum. She almost dodged him. Almost succeeded in getting back to the tunnel. But he was too close, and too quick. Even as she spun around and dove back the way she had come, a strong hand seized her left wrist and forced her to a standstill.

“Caught youuu,” he taunted in a soft, singsong voice.

Abruptly she was staggering back, caught off guard by the sharp tug on her wrist that pulled her backward and against his chest. Before she could recover, the grip on her wrist transferred to an arm locking across her abdomen like a band of padded steel. His other hand came around and caught her chin, cradling her jaw in his palm in a gentle but inescapable grip that kept her immobile as he leaned in close.

She gave him a low, playful growl and started to reach backward.

“I wouldn’t recommend trying to pants me a second time,” he threatened, though the light kiss he pressed to her temple ruined the menace in his voice.

He settled his grip a little more firmly and began pulling her backward; drawing her back through the doorway he had burst out of.

“Wait, wait, wait; where are we going?” Kriivah tried to squirm in his grip, but found she couldn’t loosen his hold.

“I generously gave you the chance to surrender. You chose not to take it. So, I am going to take other means to prevent my Listener from escaping her punishment.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. “Would my dear Kriivah like to learn something _else_ that I learned about dogs and wolves?”

He didn’t wait for an answer; he simply turned his head and nipped her ear gently. The wolf froze inside her for just a single heartbeat, and then submitted completely, dragging the startled Breton along for the ride.

“An ear nip is how wolves establish dominance,” he chuckled unnecessarily as she went limp and unresisting. “It seems to work on naughty little Breton werewolves too.”

He tugged her into one of the alcoves, where the shadows were almost too deep for her to see. “There are intact manacles still here, Listener. Only I have the key, and with the two of us being the only ones with the password to the Black Door, well… you get the idea.”

Kriivah struggled again, and received another nip on the ear for her efforts.

“I was thinking of something else; I am rather a fan of laughter, too.” He chuckled softly, for effect, the amusement shaking his body against her back. “I was quite interested in hearing about a dog’s… ‘tickle spot,’ and I suspect that’s why you fled when I brought it up.”

“Um,” she stuttered, feebly trying to brace herself against the smooth floor and failing miserably, “I’d rather not find out how ticklish I am. And I’d really, really, really, rather you not find out.”

“An hour late, and a Septim short,” Cicero retorted, his grip shifting to seize her wrists and bring them up above her head. She felt the metal close over her wrists a moment before his hands dropped to her abdomen. “You had your chance. Now you pay the price.”

One hand darted under her tunic, and a single finger trailed a torturously light path across her stomach.

Kriivah was an assassin and a werewolf; a creature born of people’s nightmares. She had built immunity to almost all poisons, the hard way. She could probably eat most of a nightshade salad without much more than a bit of a bellyache. Her teachers had taught her how to compartmentalize fear and pain, so that neither could stay her hand in a situation where the one and only goal was to end someone’s life. They were old visitors to her body; as such, neither could have broken her.

Unfortunately, none of her teachers had considered that a form of torture could center on light touches and tickling. None of them could have imagined that that was even a thing that existed. So, naturally, she had no defense against it.

The squeal that burst out of her only served to put a predatory grin back on Cicero’s face. “Oh Listener, you asked for this. And I’m going to enjoy every bit of it.”


	25. Chapter 25

Cicero’s face was starting to ache slightly from his constant grin. It pleased him immensely that kindly Kriivah… sweet Renae, gentle werewolf and tolerant Listener, could play and have fun. He couldn’t truly be angry over her deviousness or mischievous tricking him all this time. He had learned many things. Yes, indeed, and had enjoyed discovering them about the Breton sister with her poisoned knives.

Of course, he couldn’t punish her _too_ much for what she had done. But it did amuse him quite a bit that such a beautiful, deadly, dangerous creature, could be reduced to a squealing, laughing girl trying to squirm away his teasing fingertips.

So it was that he only tickled her for a few minutes, and stopped with a grin when the gasping Breton begged him to.

He let her catch her breath, leaning his forehead against hers and letting their breaths mingle between them. “Are you sorry for the snowball, and for pantsing poor, innocent me?”

She gave a small laugh, “Mmm not really. I’ll cherish your expressions for the rest of my days.”

He gave her a stern glare, “Listener… You are asking for more trouble.”

She twitched, though his hands hadn’t moved from their resting places on her sides, “Well, you don’t want me to **lie** about it, do you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her and uttered a noncommittal, “Hmmm.”

“Will you please let me out of the shackles? I would like to make us some breakfast, and I would like to see you unwrap a gift before I go back to Falkreath.”

Cicero’s hands moved up, producing a key from a hidden pocket. There was a click, and her shackles released. “And what you would have me unwrap?” he murmured huskily, drawing a not-unpleasant shiver from the Breton as his hands trailed down to lightly cup her breasts.

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a sweet and sexy ‘thank you for healing me,’” she murmured agreeably, “But… well…” Her stomach decided it had waited long enough; it made a sound that make Cicero rear back and flick a concerned glance at her eyes, expecting to see that green had filled them. Then his eyebrows rose and his gaze dropped to her stomach.

She gave him a grin, “All things in order, my handsome crow?”

Cicero laughed, “All things in order, my lady wolf.”

.

“Listener…” Breakfast was finished, and now Cicero’s eyes widened as he stared at the item on the table.

It was a new leather sheath for his ebony dagger; dyed black to nestle almost invisibly at his hip against his jester’s outfit. Embossed on the leather was an intricately designed crow in flight. Feathers had been outlined in detail, and a small, flawless ruby made up the bird’s eye… one spot of glittering color amidst the darkness of the sheath.

“A small gift for my crow,” Kriivah said quietly, leaning gently against him, “Your fine blade deserves and equally fine sheath. You have made offerings to the wolf. Now we make an offering to our crow.”

“This is no ‘small’ gift. Such craftsmanship! Thank you. I will treasure it.” Cicero’s ebony blade slid into the sheath easily, and he stood, admiring it on his hip with a smile.

“It looks amazing on you.” Kriivah slid her arms around him from behind and simply leaned against his back.

The man turned into her, his hands gliding down to her lower back.

Kriivah jumped slightly and her eyes widened as he smirked. “Perhaps I can unwrap another gift, hmmm? And just maybe try out an idea involving _this_ particular spot?” He gave her lower back a light caress.

A pleasant shiver rippled through her. She gave him a quick kiss. “Now _that_ , I won’t try to escape.”


	26. Chapter 26

Slipping into the Falkreath Sanctuary and descending the stairs, Kriivah’s ears caught the sound of Veezara’s voice. “Oh sister, how did your contract go? You know I love hearing about them.”

There was a smirk in Babette’s voice as she replied, "In truth? It was so easy, I almost feel a bit guilty. Once again, the ‘sweet, innocent child’ earned more trust than was wise."

“Ohh come now, don’t hold out on me,” the Argonian cajoled as Kriivah entered the main room where the Brotherhood had gathered, “Do the voices. You always do them so well.” The Breton was relieved to see that his injury had been completely healed.

Babette’s eyes flicked to the werewolf and her expression brightened, throwing a wave in the Breton’s direction.

Kriivah returned the wave and gestured for the vampire child to continue, eager to hear how the girl’s contract had turned out.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Astrid’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly before the Brotherhood leader forced herself to relax again. At least one person wasn’t happy that Kriivah was back.

Babette didn’t seem to notice, for her smile widened into a grin, flashing her fangs in the light of the torch, “Okay, okay.” Her expression turned sickly sweet, her voice sliding into a fair imitation of an older man’s voice; oily and full of false friendliness, "Ooh, you are such a... pretty... little girl. Would the sweetie like a sweetie? Oh yes, how about some chocolate?”

Kriivah made a face. _Ugh. I wonder which parent called us on him. No loss to society, that one._

 Babette’s expression shifted to a brightly innocent expression, “Oh yes, please, kind sir. My mama and papa left me all alone, and I'm so very hungry. I know a shortcut to the candy shop. It’s right through this alley.”

There were several snickers from around the room.

Babette switched to the man’s voice again, slimy with satisfaction and triumph. “Oh yes, very good. Very good.” She made his voice quaver briefly, “My goodness, it’s dark down here.” Then slimy once more, “Oh, but you are so beautiful. I just want to hold you close.” Babette gestured, pantomiming the man gathering her up into his arms. “Such a lovely smile. Your teeth are... your teeth! No! Nooooo!"

Veezara laughed, clutching his sides as the girl bowed with a flourish at the end of her tale.

Her voice returning to normal, she smirked, “I couldn’t very well allow a man like **that** to receive the gift of immortality. Of course, it takes three days for Sanguinare Vampiris to turn a living person into a vampire, so after I fed from him, I slit his throat to hide my fang marks and made sure he bled out. I received quite a bonus from the contact for turning him into the helpless victim before killing him.”

“Well done, Babette,” Astrid approved, her eyes riveted Kriivah.

“Oh, it wasn’t really all that special. I am sure Nazir's cooking is great and all, but my appetites are a little more... discerning. He didn't even put up much of a fight, but made for a tasty snack. A rich bouquet of flavors. I would highly recommend it.” Babette flashed the werewolf a slightly fang-y smirk over Astrid’s shoulder and winked.

“Uh, er… yes. Well. I’ll take your word for it, dear.” It took a massive effort of will on Kriivah’s part not to dissolve into a spate of laughter at Astrid’s disturbed expression. The assassin leader seemed to be trying not to squirm, and rather quickly leaped upon a new topic. “Ahem. And now our dear werewolf Sister returns. Tell us; how did your hunt fare?”

Everyone’s attention sprang to the Breton, making her grimace internally. Of course Astrid would want her to tell a large audience. She would have to choose her words carefully.

The werewolf spread her hands, “Successful of course. I’m sure Arnbjorn told you how he chased Cicero and wounded him. I merely finished the hunt.” Kriivah told them about the Sanctuary, and gave plenty of details about the traps and guardians to satisfy her early listening audience. “Arnbjorn got him good. He was actually disarmed by the time I caught up with him; his dagger on the ground, the man himself lying prone in a dead end room. Taking care of him was… a rather anticlimactic end to the hunt, really. I had to rest for a little while though. The ghostly guardians were dangerous opponents.”

Astrid looked thoroughly satisfied. "Arnbjorn is safe, and for that you have my thanks. Once again, you've proven yourself a born assassin. Tell you what. Why don't you hold onto Shadowmere for a while longer? He's a fine steed, and hasn't been ridden nearly as much as he should lately. And now that this Cicero mess has been mopped up, we can get back to the matter at hand, hmm?"

Kriivah smiled thinly. None of what she had said was a lie, of course, but what she had said made it easy to assume. Taking advantage of this, she asked, seemingly all innocence, “Matter at hand?”

“Oh yes. Gabriella contacted Amaund Motierre in Volunruud. Our contract is to kill the Emperor of Tamriel.” Kriivah’s jaw dropped and Astrid nodded. “Quite a lucrative opportunity. No one has dared assassinate an Emperor of Tamriel since the murder of Uriel Septim, and that was two hundred years ago. If we pull this off, the Dark Brotherhood will know a fear and respect we haven't seen in centuries.”

“Is that why I met Gabriella so late?” Kriivah felt the information sliding into place.

Astrid shifted uncomfortably and her eyes wouldn’t meet the Breton’s, “Well… Yes. Mostly. She had been on a complicated job when you arrived. Once I sent her to Volunruud, Gabriella ended up running all over Skyrim; killing off several key targets and gathering information in order to ensure the Emperor shows himself.”

Kriivah slowly nodded. She couldn’t complain about not being the one to do that. Although she had been the one to hear the Night Mother’s contract, traditionally, the Listener didn’t go out on jobs. The fact that she had been on jobs at all, was really due to Astrid’s abandoning the Tenets.

Astrid abruptly smiled sweetly, setting the Breton’s teeth on edge. “Your loyalty in the matter of Cicero has made me quite proud, my dear. I know you were rather attached to him… for some reason.” Astrid’s expression said that she thought less of the Breton for that. “And yet, when I gave the order, you obeyed without hesitation. You helped my husband, so you deserve the privilege of killing the Emperor.”

Kriivah made a show of being surprised and honored, “Thank you, Astrid.” She pretended to hesitate, concern crossing her face, “But won’t Gabriella feel slighted? She’s been doing all the hard work.”

The Nord woman smiled indulgently, “Never you fear. I’ll make sure that Gabriella understands why you were chosen. I’ll make sure she doesn’t feel jealous.”

_I’ll just bet you will. In fact, I’ll bet the Emperor’s contract money that I’m not even meant to survive this job._

“You are going to impersonate the Gourmet,” the Brotherhood leader said, shifting to brisk and businesslike. “Gabriella has already taken care of that little detail. And one of the benefits to this is, the title of Gourmet is all he was ever known by. No one knows who the real Gourmet was, so no one will know that you’re an imposter. You are to go to Castle Dour in Solitude. Present the Gourmet's Writ of Passage to the officer in charge, Commander Maro.” She handed the Breton a folded piece of paper. “You'll gain unrestricted access to the kitchens, and then the Emperor. You're posing as a chef, so you'll be able to poison his meal rather easily. Here.”

_Maro... Maro… why is that name familiar? Something tells me that I should be concerned by that name, but I can't put a finger on it._ Kriivah tucked the writ into her pouch without a word, then accepted a small pile of neatly folded clothes; a chef’s outfit.

“I think you’ll love that part of the job, my dear. I’m thinking you’ll want to use some of your precious jarrin root as a… ‘special seasoning.’ Once Mede has been killed, escape through the upper door, and across the bridge. I've… arranged... for it to be unguarded once the alarm is sounded."

Kriivah let a pleased smile cross her face, “Ahh, jarrin root. That brings back some delightful memories. I look forward to this hunt.” Slipping into a thoughtful expression, she murmured, almost to herself, “Not ground through. Maybe a vial of the distilled stuff. Spreads the poison more quickly throughout the food.”

Astrid nodded, “I’ll let you decide, of course. You know your poisons best. Now go. Fulfill your destiny as Listener.”

_Sithis, that was cliché. Even if I didn’t know that my ‘destiny’ is to die on this job, that would be insulting and suspicious rather than inspiring._ Kriivah made her way to the sleeping area to search through her collection. The vials of her many poisons were arranged neatly on the shelf, undisturbed and labeled in her own neat hand.

Selecting a vial of jarrin root extract, she tucked it securely into her pouch.

The werewolf noted Nazir’s approach out of the corner of her eye, but gave him a small smile of appreciation when he deliberately scuffed a boot to let her know he was there. “Packing up so soon, Sister?”

“I am. My time is limited, I’m afraid. I’m killing the Emperor himself. I have to move quickly.” Kriivah cinched her bag closed and checked around to see if anything else would be needed.

Nazir started to step forward, then warily stopped again.

“You may enter my space safely, Brother,” she reassured him.

“I… ah. Good. I don’t want to anger your wolf. Listen,” he eased past the invisible barrier of scent, “I know you liked that Cicero fellow. And honestly, you deserve time to mourn. You’ve been running since you set foot in our Sanctuary. When this is over, come back and rest for a week. Take some advice from your wise-cracking older Brother…” He gruffly ruffled her bangs, earning himself a look of mingled annoyance and amusement. “... you **can** refuse contracts. Give yourself time. Werewolf or not, you’ll run yourself ragged at the pace you’re keeping.”

“And spend a week listening to your horrible puns, old man?” She grinned at him.

He scowled at her, though the corners of his mouth twitched, “I said ‘older Brother,’ not ‘old man.’ I am older than you are by only a few years, at most.”

“Plenty of time to observe your slow slide into senility so I know when to fall upon my own blades.” Kriivah lifted her pack onto her back with a faint grunt.

Nazir thumped her gently on the top of her head with a fist, “Just for that, your ‘welcome home,’ meal will be entirely vegetarian.”

The Breton gave him a menacing glare, “There will be venison on that table, or I will fill your bed with beetles.”

The Redguard pretended to shudder in horror, then laughed and pulled her into a one armed hug, “Take care of yourself, girl. I’ve become attached to you… rather against my will.”

“Poor baby. Now how did that even happen? I suppose you must love to suffer.” She smirked at him, then her expression softened. “I’ll be careful. I didn’t survive the loss of the Hammerfell Sanctuary by behaving foolishly. I’ll see you later, okay?”

The Redguard nodded and let go of her. “Be careful. You will only have one shot at this, and the Penitus Oculatus will be out for blood.”

Kriivah nodded, “I will make sure to have backup plans in place in case things go sour.”

“Good girl. Get going. Kill well, and often.”


	27. Chapter 27

Shadowmere trotted up to the gates of Solitude, bearing Kriivah dressed in the chef’s outfit, with Cicero behind her and dressed in Solitude armor. The Breton had her assassin armor concealed beneath the civilian clothes, including her hood and face mask. She might need them later.

She introduced herself as the Gourmet to the gate guards and dismissed her ‘guard,’ who led the horse off to the stables. They would meet up later.

She was admitted into the city without fuss. "Commander Maro is waiting for you, Gourmet,” a guard told her, giving her directions on how to find the entrance to the kitchens. "He’s the leader of the Penitus Oculatus stationed in Skyrim, and responsible for the Emperor's security on his visit. Don’t let him intimidate you; he has to be scary right now. That writ will change his tune well enough.”

The Breton was grateful for the reassurance from the guard; few things frightened the assassin anymore, but even _she_ felt hesitation when an Imperial warrior blocked her path, expression hard and dark. He wore specialized armor, and wore the stylized dragon shape that symbolized the Empire.

"Stop right there. The tower is off limits until further notice," the man growled.

"Sir, are you Commander Maro?” Kriivah asked. "I was instructed to show this to you.”

"What's this now?" He tugged the paper rather sharply out of her hands and flicked them open, dark eyes scanning the contents swiftly. "...order of his eminence... ...possessor of these papers... the Gourmet... By Azura. The Gourmet!" He looked at her again, and his face flushed with shame as he took in her chef’s clothing properly. "I... I'm sorry! Your clothes... of course... I should have realized! Please, excuse my ignorance. Gianna, the castle chef, has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. You should proceed to the kitchens straight away." He gestured for her to continue.

The werewolf soon found herself in a long hallway that turned into a spacious kitchen, filled with bustling workers. Only one other person was wearing a chef’s hat; an Imperial woman just a little taller than the Breton was stirring a large pot.

She barely glanced up at Kriivah, a harried expression on her face. "Not another delivery! I told you people, our stocks are fine. Now put whatever you have over there, and get out." Stress made her words sharp.

Kriivah felt a pang of sympathy for the poor woman. Cooking for an entire castle of people was hard enough work on a standard day. Having to cook for an Emperor, who would likely be very used to the best foods available and highly critical of even the slightest ‘flaw,’ would turn a busy day into one of the most stressful experiences of a person’s life.

_Her presence is inconvenient,_ Kriivah sighed to herself, _but I suspected that the castle chef would be present. I dare not add the jarrin root to the food, however… As a fellow chef, and as someone who will have worked on the food with me, she’ll be put to death too. It’s messy, sloppy work to drag innocent people into the mix. Time to think on my feet._

"You misunderstand.” Kriivah offered the woman a smile, "I am the Gourmet."

"The... Gourmet?” She looked up at Kriivah, her eyes turning relieved, "Oh! Finally! When I heard the Gourmet was being brought to cook for the Emperor, I could hardly believe it. I just... Well, I just never expected the Gourmet to be a Breton. It almost seems too obvious. Some of the greatest cooks have been Bretons, and..."

Kriivah held up a hand to forestall her nervous chatter, "I am here to cook, not talk. Let us begin; we have a hungry Emperor and his court to feed.”

Gianna blinked, and then gave the Breton a sheepish smile, "Oh! Yes, but of course. Ahem. The Emperor has requested your signature dish - the _Potage le Magnifique_. I've taken the liberty of getting it started. But the cookbook only says so much, and everyone makes the Potage differently. I would be honored if we could make it... the Gourmet's special way. The base broth is already boiled. We can get started right now.”

She gestured to the pot that simmered over the fire.

Kriivah’s keen nose detected the chicken and beef broth, as well as butter to enrich the flavor and flour as a thickening agent. Gianna had also already added diced onions and allowed them to simmer.

The Breton nodded in satisfaction and slid into her chef’s mentality. She directed the woman to add diced carrots and a splash of mead. As it simmered, Kriivah carefully prepared a few crumbled leaves of dried Nirnroot for seasoning. It would give the dish a more aromatic smell, and give a mildly tangy aftertaste.

The pot simmered for a quarter hour, checked frequently by both chefs until the Breton nodded and indicated that it was time to add the meat. The Imperial brought over a bowl of finely chopped meat; horker meat by smell. The walrus-like beasts were a favored food, next to mammoths, here in the North.

A flicker of disgust crossed Kriivah’s face. Normally, the dark, bitter, fatty flesh did not appeal to her at all. If a werewolf could be considered finicky, then that was what she usually was. The rich, woodsy taste of deer meat usually called to her far more strongly than any other beast in Skyrim. Even humans; so soft, so easy to kill; fell second.

"Hmmm... horker. So delicious. I swear, is there a soul alive who doesn't enjoy the taste of… Sorry, I didn't mean to get carried away.” Gianna added the entire bowl of meat into the pot while Kriivah stirred. "There we go, one cup of diced horker meat.”

As the meat soaked in the stew’s flavors, the kitchen rapidly filled with the savory smell. Her wolf hummed in silent satisfaction. Though the two of them preferred venison, they were both satisfied by the scent of a meal that was perfectly made.

Gianna carefully took a taste and her expression turned to one of deep satisfaction and pleasure. "I have to say, the stew seems done. Add anything else, and we may dilute the distinct flavors. But I want to hear your final word on it; it's your most famous recipe, after all.”

The vial of poison in Kriivah’s pocket pressed against her thigh, but she shook her head. "That’s it.”

"All right then. And if I may say so... it has been an honor, getting a chance to prepare a meal with, well... the best chef in the entire Empire.” Gianna removed the pot from the heat and wrapped it in a thick cloth to help shield her from the heat. "I'll carry the stew pot, and lead the way up to the dining room. I'm sure the Emperor and his guests are dying to meet you.”

The Breton stifled a groan at the unintentional pun, but followed the woman through the halls to the dining room.

"Here we are,” Gianna announced in an undertone. "Gods, I'm nervous. We'll go in in just a moment. Please, I'll serve. You just stand there and... be amazing."

Kriivah nodded. She stood behind the Imperial chef and carefully slid an iron dagger out of the sheath at her hip, and slowly and subtly applied the jarrin root extract to the blade. The blade itself was a standard dagger, one of thousands, if not millions, of identical blades sold throughout Tamriel; it would be impossible to trace. As they waited for the signal to serve, the Breton’s ears caught the strains of conversation on the other side of the wall.

The cultured voice of an elderly nobleman was speaking, "...but aren't you the least bit nervous? After everything that's happened?"

Another voice, whom she suspected was Emperor Titus Mede, replied. His voice was sleazy and pompous, "You mean the wedding? My cousin's apparent murder? An unfortunate misunderstanding, no more. Cold mead, hot tempers... these things happen.”

_Gabriella… that was Gabriella’s doing. I admit to being impressed if she made it look like a simple brawl gone wrong._

The nobleman continued, "Quite. Yet that recent business with the young officer. Maro, was it? How dreadful. The son of your commander, plotting your assassination.”

Kriivah abruptly went cold. _Maro. Gaius Maro. Son of the commander… the commander who let me walk in here._

Things slammed into place in the Breton’s mind, and her wolf was on high alert instantly: responding to Kriivah’s rush of adrenaline. Gabriella had killed the son of Commander Maro… and apparently framed him as a traitor to the Empire. Gabriella who had killed the Gourmet and retrieved the Writ that got Kriivah into this building in the first place. And now, Kriivah… Kriivah not Gabriella... was in a castle, surrounded by men and women sworn to give their lives to protect the Emperor… an Emperor that Kriivah was going to have to kill in front of multiple witnesses. It would be Kriivah’s face that would be burned in the minds of every warrior in this building. Even if she got away, her face would be on every wanted poster ever printed throughout the entirety of Tamriel.

_Sithis guard me…_ She thought, swallowing thickly. It was neat. So neat and clean, that the werewolf had to feel a trickle of admiration for Astrid’s cunning betrayal.

There wasn’t much she could do about the ones who had already seen her. She could only pray that she had been unremarkable enough that most of the people she had passed would not be able to give a credible description. Gianna might, but she wasn’t trained to memorize faces.

Commander Maro, on the other hand, would be. He would _have_ to be, in order to protect an Emperor.

Cold certainty filled her veins, and a deadly calm settled over her. _All right then. Let’s do this. You have your job, and you know that just about every assassin dies this way. The only important thing is to do the job. After that? Well, Sithis meets everyone sooner or later._

Gianna wasn’t watching her, and no one else was in the hall. Her wolf was ready, so she carefully unbuckled the straps of her armor so that if she had to shift, she could do so without breaking her ribs trying to transform in snug armor built for a human.

The Emperor continued, "Yes, an unfortunate turn of events, that. But an isolated incident. And I have been assured the faults was with the man's son alone. Truth is, we are in no danger whatsoever. Killing an Emperor can be useful, but befriending one? Now that's beneficial - as I'm sure you'd all agree."

There was a round of fake, sycophantic laughter, and a bell rang, signifying that the meal was to begin.

Kriivah slipped her assassin’s hood over her head and slid her face mask over her face as Gianna walked into the room. She followed, keeping to the background and using all her skills to not draw too much attention to herself. Fortunately, all eyes in the room were focused on Gianna, who was carrying the pot directly to the Emperor’s place. Even the Penitus Oculatus agents barely spared the assassin a glance.

_The food was supposed to be poisoned. Gianna is carrying the food._ Kriivah’s mind raced, and she settled on the only thing that would give the poor woman plausible deniability.

Emperor Titus Mede II grinned broadly, "Aha! Here we are. Honored guests, I present to you - the Gourmet! Ah, the Potage le Magnifique. So delicious. My friends, as emperor, I of course reserve the right of first taste."

Another round of sycophantic laughter trailed around the room as Gianna ladled the first serving into the bowl in front of the Emperor.

The Breton slowly drew her dagger. She had followed the other chef at a carefully measured distance and was now positioned behind her.

The Emperor took a taste and grinned broadly. "Oh... Oh how marvelous. Just delicious. It is everything I had hoped it would be. Please, everyone. Enjoy."

As Gianna turned to serve the next noble in line, Kriivah acted. With a burst of werewolf speed, she used the pommel of the dagger to strike Gianna’s temple. The woman’s eyes rolled upward and she collapsed, spraying the stones around her with the dropped Potage le Magnifique.

_I’m sorry, Gianna. May you forgive me the headache you will suffer when you awaken. May the gods watch over you in the days to come. I hope that by attacking you, the guards will believe your innocence._

Pivoting in the split second that everyone was frozen in surprise, Kriivah threw off the chef’s hat, revealing the distinctive assassin’s hood and mask, and buried the poisoned dagger in the Emperor’s throat.

A Penitus Oculatus Agent yelled, "By the gods! The Emperor has been murdered!"

The shocked guards were still drawing their swords when the Breton darted out the back door. Without pausing to change out of her chef’s clothing, she sprinted across the bridge, aiming for the tower on the opposite side. She could see the stairwell leading downward, which was the direction she needed to go.

A slow clapping sound made her skid to a stop. Commander Maro stepped into sight at the top of the tower, and four heavily armored Penitus Oculatus Agents came out to meet her on the bridge. There was a moment of panic, and then she felt her heartbeat slow again when she noticed that one ‘guard’ was brandishing an Ebony dagger instead of a broadsword.

Commander Maro was still performing his slow clap as he sneered down at her. "That man was, by far, the most insufferable decoy the Emperor has ever employed. His death was rather gratifying, honestly. Ah, but I'm even happier that **_you_** killed him.”

_A decoy. Of course it was a decoy. Damn you to the Void, Astrid!_

"I admit to being impressed; your disguise was flawless. Fascinating how such a sweet face could hide the empty place where a heart should beat.” He spat on the stones, to show what he thought of her. "You would have succeeded in taking the Emperor’s life, had it been the real man.”

Kriivah stared at Maro, her face turning as impassive as stone behind her mask. Astrid would pay, but there were more pressing matters: namely, the three armed men who were eyeing her, just waiting for the word from the Commander.

The Commander stared down at the Breton with icy hatred, "Surprised? So was I, when a member of your "Family" came to me with the plan. We worked out a deal, you see. An exchange. I get the woman who murdered my son and framed him as a traitor, and the Dark Brotherhood gets to continue its existence.”

"Commander Maro, I have killed many people. Your son was not among them. You’ve been tricked,” but even as she spoke, Kriivah could see that her words meant nothing

He shrugged dismissively, "Maybe. Maybe not. But you know what? It doesn’t really matter. You tried to murder the Emperor, so you’re a dead woman, regardless. But I think I’ve changed my mind about our little deal…” He leered and pretended to ponder, even putting his hand to his chin in mock thought. "How about this? I kill you, and butcher each and every one of your miserable friends as well! I’ll put your precious Sanctuary's to the torch. That's what I think of this ‘deal!’ ”

The Ebony dagger wielding ‘guard’ stiffened, and Kriivah knew why; the Night Mother was still in the Sanctuary. Burning the Sanctuary put her in danger.

Commander Maro leaned forward, spitting his words in fury. "You killed my son! All of you! And now you'll pay the price!” He gestured at the men below him. "Kill her! And make sure there's nothing left to bury."

He turned and walked away; vanishing into the tower, and not even caring enough to watch her demise…. which suited the Breton just fine.

Kriivah called upon her wolf, drawing her to the surface as three of the Penitus Oculatus Agents started toward her.

The fourth ‘guard,’ the one with the ebony dagger, darted toward the nearest Agent and shoved the blade through the eyeholes of the man’s helmet. He dropped swiftly, but not silently. His armor clattered on the stones, and the remaining two jerked to a stop.

"What in the bloody blazes?!” one of the men yelled in shock, as the transformation into her feral form bloomed over her. Her chef’s clothing shredded, and her unbuckled armor parted to make room for the beast within.

Taking a deep breath, Kriivah’s wolf let out a snarling roar and attacked.


	28. Chapter 28

The battle had been harder than it should have been. Commander Maro had definitely been given a heads-up on her status as a werewolf as well, and so had equipped his men with silver infused blades. Kriivah’s injuries were bleeding freely by the time she ripped the final man’s head off.

“Let’s go, Sister wolf!” Cicero hissed from within the helmet and waved her toward the stairs.

The wolf obediently half blundered, half charged for the stairs. The wounds would heal, but it would take much more time and energy than they had to spare at the moment. And she needed to be well away before her needs became overwhelming.

The stairwell lead straight to the outside of the walls, depositing her a short distance from the gates. As the hue and cry rose in the city, she bounded down the road, leaving a trail of blood…. Unfortunately, it was as much her own as that of the Agents. The silver slowed her healing considerably. But there was no time to stop, no time to shift back and heal.

Shadowmere was waiting patiently by the road, near the stables, and Cicero bounded into the saddle with ease.

“Separate!” The Keeper called, as the road split. “I will meet you at the designated spot!”

The wolf didn't even bother to pause. She knew the demon horse could outlast a mortal horse, and with Cicero leading the Agents on, she could get away if she took a more direct route to safety. Kriivah leaped off the stone cliff that lined the road to Solitude and landed with a resounding crash upon the wooden walkway leading to the East Empire Company Warehouse below. The wood splintered beneath her clawed feet, pelting her with shards of broken wood.

She lurched painfully to her feet, half barreled, half limped to the edge of the dock and plunged into the deep, icy waters of the bay. When she had gone to Falkreath’s inn to meet up with the Keeper, they had both agreed that her best bet was to disappear into Drajkmyr marsh, on the other side of the bay. There was an abandoned shack where she could collapse and shift back in safety.

Kriivah was normally immune to cold, but the silver inflicted wounds rapidly sapped her strength and weakened her immunity.

The werewolf splashed out of the icy water with a sluggishness that alarmed them both. The cold, the current, and the struggles to heal her wounds had all left her exhausted and fiercely hungry. Her nose caught the scent of a beast and she lurched across the ice pebbled shores; the horker had time to bellow only once in fear before her fangs and claws took it down.

Desperate for sustenance, she tore into the horker without hesitation. There were no deer on this frigid shelf of rock and she was in desperate need of meat to replenish the resources she had already lost. She could not wait. Her stomach roiled briefly in protest, then settled when hunger overrode her taste buds.

It took almost two hours before she could begin to slow down in her single minded feeding. Her body made brisk use of the flesh she swallowed, and the pain had finally faded into bone deep aches instead of sharp burning of silver inflicted wounds.

Once she paused long enough to actually contemplate whether to take another mouthful of meat, or whether she could let go of this distasteful flesh for something more palatable, there was a scuffing sound. A deliberate sound; the owner of the boot wanted her to know that she was not alone.

The wolf’s head came up, her ears went back, and her lips pulled back from her bloodied teeth in menace. Her deep, threatening growl rolled through the still, frigid air.

“You are as beautiful and as deadly as ever,” came the cheerful voice, as Cicero waved to her from well out of striking range. Shadowmere nickered and shook his head behind the Keeper.

Her ears perked up and the snarl died as she stared at him with luminous green eyes. Her Crow was here. They were both safe.

As the bristling hackles fell, Cicero eased a little closer. “Never fear, lovely Listener: I will keep watch while you feed.”

She blinked as he walked past her, still just out of striking range. He sat on a rock, with his back to her, watching the far shoreline. His posture clearly said that he was on equal footing to her, and also felt no threat, since he felt he could turn his back on her. Kriivah snorted softly and returned to feeding, some tension having leaked out of her now that someone was watching her back. Cicero, for his part, didn’t seem at all bothered by the sounds of tearing flesh behind him.

Finally finished, she padded past him to the water’s edge and began dunking and rolling in the cold water to clean her fur of the remnants of her feeding. Exhaustion still pulled at her, and only a burning desire to be clean again put her back in the frigid waters. But feeding had allowed her to heal, and the silver finally seemed to have been purged.

When she felt clean again, she padded back onto dry ground, limped a fair distance away and gave herself a good shake. The wolf needed sleep, and she needed to shift back into a human to finish healing her injuries. But the island had no shelter, and they weren't safe here. She gave an exhausted whine. Could she make it to the shack?

As if in answer, Cicero was suddenly next to her, gloved hand caressing her broad, furred head. “Sleep, sweet wolf,” he crooned into a pointed ear. “Your Crow will take care of everything.”

The werewolf didn’t curl up to sleep so much as drop like a stone to the icy earth.

.

Kriivah woke to find herself naked and wrapped in furs on the floor of a carriage. The scents of the normal humans who used this transport were stale. Chunks of horker flesh were piled nearby, as was half a loaf of bread, a generous wedge of cheese and an apple. Glancing around, she spotted Cicero’s back as he sat in the driver’s seat. She could only guess that Shadowmere was pulling them along, as they were traveling at a brisk trot rather than a slow plod.

At her low groan, he turned toward her, his eyes glaring into her own. She was startled to note that they had darkened with worry until they were more of a bronze color than their usual golden brown.

Reaching back and tapping her nose with a finger like an errant puppy, Cicero said,  “You will eat, drink, and rest. We are still hours from Falkreath. I will get us there, but you have foolishly drained your energy in the bay beneath Solitude. You must recover in order to help, and you cannot do that if you don’t do what I say. Understood?”

She gave him a weak smile, “I hear and obey, Keeper.”

“Good wolfie,” he turned back to the road.

Had she been in any better condition, she could have considered disobeying out of sheer stubborn contrariness... and some morbid curiosity as to how exactly he would punish her, considering his track record. But this time, obedience won out, mostly due to the fact that her wolf was unconscious. She made a face, but ate the raw horker meat, then cleansed her pallette with the more normal foods before her body’s need for rest dragged her down to join the sleeping beast.

_Nazir was right,_ she thought dimly. _I have been wearing myself ragged… and I likely won’t get a lot of real rest for a while yet..._

 


	29. Chapter 29

She woke up quite a while later when Cicero dropped her armor back into the carriage.

“It is still serviceable, and we will be arriving at the Sanctuary in a quarter of an hour. I can already see the smoke. Get dressed, and hurry.”

The Breton was dressed in record time, and unbidden by Cicero, Shadowmere whinnied in rage and sped up.

Several Penitus Oculatus Agents rushed to meet the pair, and were plowed under by the raging demon horse’s hooves. Kriivah leaped from the carriage, daggers in hand, and dispatched two other agents.

Cicero’s triumphant yell of, “Stab you, stab you, stab you! Stab you for the Night Mother!" definitely marked the end of another Agent.

The old mage, Festus Krex, was pinned to a tree by countless arrows. There was no hope of helping him, but the scorch marks and… gory remains of several agents said he had, at least, died fighting.

There were barrels of oil everywhere, and smoke billowed out of the entrance to the Sanctuary. The two shared horrified expressions and raced through the open door.

Kriivah didn't know how Commander Maro had gotten the password into the Sanctuary, but now was not the time to stand around asking. The pair separated inside, searching among the smoke and flames for anyone left alive.

“Which one ratted them out?” An agent asked.

“Dunno. One of these corpses. Does it matter?” The second Agent kicked a corpse on the ground, and Kriivah realized that it was poor Veezara. The Argonian had not made it.

“Suppose not,” shrugged the first agent, “but what's taking the others so long? The sooner we get out of here, the better. Smoke's getting bad. This place'll be raging soon, and the place clearly won’t be structurally sound for much longer.”

As if to punctuate the agent’s unease, there was a loud rumble from above and a shower of dust and small rocks rained down. The scene froze momentarily as everyone held their breath in the stench of burning oil and… other things. When the ceiling seemed to be through with the momentary threat of collapsing, the two agents relaxed. The glow from what had once been a bed illuminated them to Kriiva’s smarting eyes.

Kriivah stabbed the nearest man in the back with a poisoned blade, “Tell Sithis ‘hello’ for me!” The second drew his sword, and then collapsed, clutching his chest, as her enchanted dragon bone dagger sank home and electrocuted him.

Astrid's and Arnbjorn's rooms were empty, so she bounded down the stairs into the waterfall room of the Sanctuary. There, she found Arnbjorn in his werewolf form, fighting Penitus Oculatus agents. Silver blades flashed in the red light of the fire, and the werewolf collapsed, even as he killed one of them by burying his fangs into her throat.

Kriivah was among the Agents before they knew they were still in danger. Her blades were no longer coated with poison, but they could slice flesh just fine. Someone seized her braid in a vicious grip and pulled, then screamed and released her.  An Agent clutched his wrist, staring in shock and horror at the shallow but incredibly painful cuts delivered by the spiked chain in the Breton’s hair. Her blade sank home in his throat before he could recover from the shock.

The Breton found the corpse of Gabriella in the next room. She could only spare half a heartbeat of sorrow for the Dunmer, who had done nothing more than obey the orders of her leader. She’d had no chance to redeem herself.

The Breton shook her head regretfully and sprinted for the kitchens.

"I am not afraid to die: on this day or any other. Even when I am gone, the Dark Brotherhood will be remembered in whispers!"

_Nazir! He’s still alive!_ Kriivah found the Redguard facing off against an Agent with his scimitars drawn. Swift and silent, the Breton struck from behind, burying her daggers in the man’s back in the same moment that Nazir slashed him open from the front.

The man dropped, and the Redguard’s dark eyes met her own. They lit up with relief. ”You’re alive! I was starting to wonder."

"The Emperor...it was all a trap. We were betrayed!"

Nazir made a face, "Considering most of us are now dead, I assumed as much. And before you ask, no - I don't think it was you. And since you saved my sorry hide, I’m glad that you don't think I did it."

Kriivah shook her head slightly. Name dropping would have to come later. "We need to get out of here!"

"You've got that right. It’s only a matter of time before we're roasted alive. Come on!" Nazir dove further into the Sanctuary, returning within moments, carrying a rag-doll-limp Babbette. “There’s no way out back there. Come on. We have to backtrack!”

“This way!” Cicero appeared through the smoke and flame, gesturing frantically.

“Cicero?! How…” Nazir gaped.

“Explanations later!” Kriivah shouted as an ominous cracking sound filled the air, overwhelming the sound of the crackling flames. “Go!”

There was a roar, and a wall of earth and stone cascaded down between the Breton and her companions. Kriivah’s wolf was still unconscious, much to her relief, or this would have set her into a wild panic.

As it was, the Breton stared in fear, heart pounding: searching for a way through, and finding none.

_“Listener,”_ the Night Mother’s voice whispered into her thoughts, _“I am your only salvation. Come. Embrace me.”_

The werewolf spun and sprinted into the Night Mother’s room, grimacing as she heard more earth crash down behind her. She bounded to the coffin and slid inside, closing the heavy doors behind her. Immediately the heat and smell of burning flesh and timbers were sealed away. A cooling breeze sprang from seemingly nowhere and wrapped itself around her, smelling of old death, leathered flesh and preservative oils.

“Sleep, my daughter. You have done quite enough for now.”

There was a final, creaking roar, and something heavy slammed into the coffin, pitching them backward. The last thing Kriivah heard before preternatural sleep claimed her, was the shattering of the stained glass window behind the Night Mother’s falling coffin.


	30. Chapter 30

Kriivah awakened to find herself pressed against the Night Mother’s body, still enveloped in darkness and the cool wind. Her wolf stirred along with her, uttering an uncomfortable whine.

“Ah, Night Mother, please forgive my disrespect,” the Breton murmured uncomfortably. She shifted her position slightly so that she was no longer half sprawled on the Night Mother’s body.

_“Fear not my daughter. If I objected to your flesh warming my ancient bones, I would not have invited you into my coffin to begin with.”_

“Hurry Nazir! I’m telling you, she’s in there!” Babbette’s voice, only slightly muffled by the heavy doors of the Night Mother’s coffin, was the most beautiful thing she had heard in a long time.

Nazir’s surly response ran tight second, as he growled, “I'm going…” Crash. “...as fast…” Clunk. “...as I can, you little she-devil. I don't see you…” Bang, scraaaape. “...helping…”

“I'm not exactly built for manual labor. Vampiric strength is nice in adults, but I'm stuck as a child. My body isn't capable of those impressive feats that adults can pull off. Come on, you've almost got it!"

“I will take this side. Nazir, you should take the other,” Cicero’s voice was definitely a sweeter sound than Babette’s.

“One more... pull." There was a final rumbling sound of something being dragged free of the coffin. "There."

“Can you get it open?” Babbette’s voice was anxious.

“I think so. Just hold on a moment.” Nazir sounded as though he were catching his breath.

“Listener! Kriivah, are you alright?” Cicero called.

“Yes! Yes, I’m fine.” Kriivah called back.

_“My Listener, you must speak with Astrid.”_ The Night Mother whispered.

“You bet I do.” Kriivah growled dangerously. “Where is she?”

_“Here, in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary.”_

Kriivah was taken aback. Here? In a Sanctuary that had been full of flame and falling stone? Where could she have even gone?

Information rolled through her thoughts just as there was a creak and light filtered in.

The Breton stepped out of the coffin with a dangerous snarl on her lips, eyes flooded with green.

Cicero, who had been coming forward to embrace her, took in her mood in a glance and stopped cold.

Nazir held up his hands, showing that he was unarmed. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. It's all right. You've been through a lot. Maybe you should just sit down for a bit… Take stock. Let your wolf breathe.”

“No. No rest. The Night Mother said that Astrid is still here. We need to find her. Follow me.” Kriivah strode past him, absently noting that the fires were out and the place was full of char and smoldering embers, but clearly they had come back for her as soon as it was possible. The place reeked of burnt… everything. Including flesh.

“She's here? By Sithis, I thought we'd lost her. Let's go!” Nazir perked up and eagerly followed the werewolf, and neither Breton nor wolf said anything to disabuse him of his eager hope.

The Sanctuary was full of cinders and fallen stones, but the path up to Astrid's room was clear. A secret door had been opened up in the back of the room, revealing a circle of candles. In the middle, was what could only be Astrid.

The stench of overcooked flesh was, perhaps, the only thing that could quell the wolf’s rage. Kriivah, who had been planning to carve the woman up like a roast, stopped and stared. The fire had not spared the Nord woman. Her hair and clothes were gone. She was covered almost entirely in third degree burns. The scent of death was creeping over the woman’s body, even as her eyes turned toward the Breton.

Astrid's voice was a breathy whisper through damaged lips. "Alive... you're alive... Thank Sithis..."

“Astrid…” Nazir breathed, horror and sorrow stealing the perpetual sarcasm from his voice.

Kriivah wordlessly made way for the others. They had known the woman for longer, and had more of an attachment to her. She would not deny them the chance to say goodbye.

“Sshh... Please, there is much... I have to say. And... not much time…”

Babette made a stifled choking noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“I'm sorry. So very sorry.” Astrid’s gaze flicked over Nazir and Babette. “The Penitus Oculatus... Maro. He said that by giving his son’s killer to them, he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone. Forever. By Sithis, I was such a fool. All of this... it's all my fault.”

Nazir and the vampire child stiffened in shock. Astrid’s gaze went to Kriivah in sorrow. “You are the best of us, and I nearly killed you... as I've killed everyone else… I set you up. I wanted you dead. I betrayed you, the Night Mother, and everything I hold dear. And now Maro has betrayed me. I guess Sithis has an understanding of just desserts.”

Kriivah slowly shook her head. “Traitors to the Brotherhood are judged by Sithis in the Void, Astrid. Your death will not be the end of your suffering.”

Astrid’s breathing shuddered in her lungs. "I know. I just wanted things... to stay the way they were. Before Cicero, before the Night Mother. Before... you.”

“I am the Listener, Astrid. You would have been a Speaker. We would have been equal in power. You would have lost none of your authority over your Family. I simply would have told you the contracts.”

Astrid’s attempt to smile wryly was gruesome. “I thought I could save us. I was wrong. But you're alive! So there's still a chance. A chance to start over, rebuild. You were right. The Night Mother was right. The old ways... they guided the Dark Brotherhood for centuries. I was a fool to oppose them. That's why I did... this. Don't you see? I prayed to the Night Mother! I am the Black Sacrament."

“Why would you…” Kriivah closed her eyes then, understanding. The Black Sacrament required a body... any body would do. It was a symbolic replica of the person to be killed by the Brotherhood. A Contract always resulted in a death, and the only way to take over the Dark Brotherhood was for a previous leader to die. Astrid was dying, and as a traitor, she would be sent to Sithis anyway. She was making her death meaningful, and passing the torch along the only way she could.

Astrid’s breath stuttered again, but she pulled another breath into her lungs by sheer force of will. “You must lead this family now. I give you the Blade of Woe, so that you can see it through.”

The werewolf picked up the dark blade that lay beside Astrid’s side. She eyed the dark metal, then reached into her pocket and grasped a vial. Technically, she didn't need to. Left alone, Astrid would die within the hour of her injuries. Injured as she was, it would be easy to sink the knife home into Astrid’s heart.

But Kriivah’s favored weapon was poison. And it was only fitting that her ascension be marked by her signature touch.

The small, dark brown bottle wasn't one of Kriivah’s mixtures, but familiar nonetheless. She spared the label a glance, and then slowly smiled. “Lotus Extract” was written on the bottle, in Muiri’s handwriting.

“A fitting gift, Muiri,” the werewolf murmured, and coated the Blade of Woe with the poison. She met Astrid’s eyes, and could have sworn she saw a flicker of approval in them.  “May you find redemption in the Void.”

“Thank you,” Astrid’s breath stuttered again, and she closed her eyes.

The dark blade sank between Astrid’s ribs, delivering the poison straight into Astrid’s failing heart. With the faintest of sighs, the former leader of the Dark Brotherhood was no more.

Nazir’s head was bowed. “Astrid... By the sands, I still can't wrap my head around it…”

“How could Astrid have done this to us?” Babette sounded more like a lost child than a vampire of her long years. “I should be angry. Strangely, I feel only pity for her…”

Kriivah stared at the dark blade in her hands. Her one remaining poisoned blade was slowly removed from its sheath, and she nestled the Blade of Woe in its place. She now had a Dragonbone dagger, and the Blade of Woe. Her old blades were now both retired. The past was now truly past. It was time for a new day to dawn for the Brotherhood.

_“Listener, attend me.”_

Only Cicero noticed the Breton’s head come up, and followed as she slipped away from the two grieving and pensive members. She stood before the Night Mother’s coffin, Cicero at her back, his gaze wistful as it rested on her face. He knew she could hear the Night Mother’s voice, and he never could.

_“Astrid is dead. It is as it should be. But while you live, so too does the Dark Brotherhood live. We must fulfill our contract. Emperor Titus Mede II must still be eliminated. Speak with Amaund Motierre in the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. He will know the true Emperor's location. But first, inform Nazir of your plans. For you are the Listener, and must bind this Family together.”_

Kriivah swallowed. She was a lone wolf. Always had been. The thought of wrangling the ragged remains of her family together… of forging them into an actual pack… She heaved a deep sigh, and turned toward Astrid’s room once more.

Nazir was slowly walking out, his expression deeply saddened and bleak. His dark eyes met hers; “By Sithis, what a mess. I guess this is the end. The Dark Brotherhood is finished.”

“Not exactly. The Night Mother has spoken to me again.” Kriivah noticed that Babbette was a little behind the Redguard, her own gaze sharpening at the Breton’s words.

“What?” the man twitched in surprise, and then looked intently at her, “Well... What did she say?”

“I must speak with Amaund Motierre once more.”

“Amaund Motierre? But that would mean…” The man’s voice was slightly tremulous with hope.

The Breton nodded, a slow smile blooming on her face. “The contract is still on. The true Emperor must be assassinated.”

“You mean... there's still a chance? But how? Our plan has gone to ruin, everyone is dead.... The Family…”

She gripped his shoulders bracingly, meeting his gaze fiercely, though her green eyes remained human, “Our Family lives on, but I’m going to have to ask you something difficult, considering recent events. I’m going to need you to **trust** me.”

The Redguard chewed on his lower lip, locking eyes with the werewolf. “That is a tall order, Listener. I trusted Astrid too.” Kriivah grimaced, but the man continued before she could formulate a response. “Hmph. All right then. Go. Go my Listener. Find out what that slimy bastard Motierre has to say, and then send the Emperor to Sithis.”

She gave his shoulders a final squeeze, and then released him.

“Ah, but when you're done, there's no returning here, is there?” Nazir tilted his head. “I was thinking... the Dawnstar Sanctuary. We could make a proper home there. Listen, when you're finished with this Emperor business, meet us there. I'll find some way to move the Night Mother. Don't worry.” His gaze flicked to Cicero, who had made an uncomfortable motion behind her. “I will give her the respect she deserves. Now go! And come back with a barrel full of gold, hmm?”


	31. Chapter 31

Kriivah entered Whiterun, dressed in simple, fur lined leather. Cicero had chosen, despite Nazir’s reassurances, to see to the Night Mother’s safe transport. He was the Keeper, and the Night Mother was his one and only responsibility. The Breton understood that, and had had left him clucking over the streaks of dirt and char on the coffin.

The Night Mother would be well cared for and thoroughly cleaned while Kriivah was gone.

She slid into the Bannered Mare and into a back room where two men appeared to be speaking at a little table. One was dressed in basic Imperial armor, but the other was clad in expensive finery.

That had to be Amaund. Kriivah let her expression slip into icy professionalism.

The man turned, annoyance on his face, "What is it? I said I didn't wish to…” His eyes took in her daggers and her expression, and his voice became hesitant. “...be disturbed?"

“We have unfinished business, Motierre. Sithis is due a soul. Wouldn't you agree?” Kriivah’s voice was cold as she eyed him.

The man went dead white. "By the gods. The Dark Brotherhood is still alive! But I had heard... your Sanctuary…” The pitch of his voice rose in fear, “Please! You mustn't think I had anything to do with that! I wanted the Emperor dead! The true Emperor! I still do! It was Maro! He..."

Kriivah forestalled his babbling with a raised hand. “I believe you Motierre. However, I need to know where the real Emperor is.”

"You mean, after all that's transpired, the Dark Brotherhood will still... honor the contract?” Relief flooded his face. “Why, this is astounding news! Wonderful news!” He leaned forward intently. “The Emperor is still in Skyrim, but not for long. He's on board his ship, the Katariah, moored offshore in the Solitude Inlet. But you must hurry! If you can get onboard that ship and kill Titus Mede II, as contracted... I will reveal the location of the dead drop that holds your payment."

“What kind of security should I expect?” Her eyes narrowed in thought.

"Surely you're joking? This is the true Emperor, not some half-Septim lookalike. He'll be surrounded by elite bodyguards, I'm sure. You'll have your work cut out for you.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Still... everyone assumes the Dark Brotherhood has been completely destroyed. They may be a bit more lax than usual."

“And Commander Maro. Where is he?” Kriivah knew she would have to take care of the man.

"Ah, yes, I can imagine you'd want to settle that score. Last I heard he was at the Solitude Docks, conducting the Emperor's departure."

“I sincerely hope the gold you are offering for this job will be worth it, Motierre. We are not patient with cheapskates at the best of times. Considering the circumstances…” She gave him a dark look full of promise, and fingered the hilt of her blades meaningfully.

He swallowed nervously. “I promise you; the payment is most generous. I am not going to stiff the Dark Brotherhood.”

“I’m glad we have an understanding. I will return. I suggest you be here for that.” Kriivah left the man shifting nervously.

.

It was… odd being back at Solitude again. None of the patrolling guards on the road looked twice at her, though she walked with her face uncovered. There were no wanted signs posted anywhere outside the walls that she could see. A small blessing, she supposed, as she took the turn down to the wooden walkway leading to the docks.

There was a patch of dock planks that were clearly newer than the others, and she allowed herself a small, dry smirk of amusement. Apparently a werewolf leaping off a cliff left an… impact… on things.

Then she scowled and pinched the bridge of her nose. _Sithis save me; Nazir’s horrible puns are rubbing off on me._

"...And the outpost at Dragon Bridge?"

Commander Maro’s voice replied, "It'll be shuttered by the end of the month."

The assassin’s head snapped up. Her wolf growled. Two men were approaching slowly along the dock, and apparently engrossed in the conversation; Commander Maro, and a Penitus Oculatus Agent.

The Agent nodded. "Very good. And you'll be returning to... Well, if you don't mind me asking, where exactly will you be going now, sir?"

If the Breton moved away, they might notice her. If she attacked, she would have to contend with the Agent as well. She was dressed in simple leather armor right now, and likely fairly nondescript. Narrowing green eyes, she turned and contemplated the ship moored well out in the bay. It was the only ship large enough for an emperor and his retinue of guards. It was also the only ship without an easy access point.

Kriivah would have to swim.

The Breton turned her head ever so slightly, watching the two approach out of the corner of her eye.

Maro’s expression turned bitter. "Hmph. Now there's an excellent question. An excellent question, indeed. Truth is, as soon as the Emperor sets sail, I'm resigning my position."

The Agent looked briefly crestfallen, but nodded in understanding, "Oh... I see. Well then, let me be just say that it's been an honor serving under you Commander Maro."

"The honor has been mine. You should be proud of what we've accomplished here. The Dark Brotherhood is no more. And the Emperor, finally, is safe."

"Yes sir."

The Agent walked away from them, and Commander Maro, only a short distance away from the Breton, turned and stared out at the Katariah, seemingly lost in his own dark thoughts.

There were guards everywhere here. If she walked up and stabbed the man, she would be swarmed. She would have to be creative.

“Commander Maro.”

Two words. Two words spoken in her voice, made the man nearly jump out of his skin. He spun around, gaping at her. "By the gods... you! But it can't be. You're dead! You were chased into the bay! That water would have killed you in minutes!”

“It almost did,” Kriivah smiled sweetly, “but as you can see, failing to confirm with an actual body is a rather grievous mistake on your part.”

“You… You…”

“Oh but don’t worry: the one who sold us out is, in fact, dead. But dead by my hand, not yours. You failed to eradicate us, Commander. So, I’ve come back. Come back to personally thank you for your part in that little adventure.” Green filled her eyes as she stared him down. “And then I’m going to pay the emperor a little visit.”

The Commander uttered a scream of rage, drew his sword, and attacked. Kriivah dodged the blow, and drew her daggers. To all outside eyes, the man had gone insane, and Kriivah’s slow draw of the weapons appeared to be no more than self-defense. The guards were shouting, rushing to intervene, but the timing had been perfect; everyone was too far away to intervene for a few, precious seconds.

“Tell Sithis ‘Hello,’ for me.” She sidestepped his next attack, then darted in and sank the Blade of Woe into the man’s chest.

Shock had only a moment to cross his face, then it went slack and he sank to the wood beneath their feet.

With multiple witnesses attesting to Commander Maro attacking first, the questioning was quite brief, and she was released mere hours later.

The Breton entered town and bought herself a hearty meal at the Inn. There were no wanted posters in the Inn, so the man had indeed believed she was dead. Satisfaction flavored the food and she savored it, watching the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon.

The ship would likely set sail with the morning tide, so a night strike was her best bet. She was no longer hampered by silver tainted injuries, so the cold of the water wouldn’t be as devastating as it had been the last time she had taken a swim. Still, it was always best to go in with a good meal to provide fuel for withstanding the temperatures and currents.

No one noticed the Breton sliding through the waters an hour later, and the dark of night concealed the figure climbing the anchor chain and slipping into the ship.

There was an air of calm aboard the vessel. Sailors were talking about finishing up their preparations for the night. She shed her soaked armor and took a new set from a chest to avoid leaving a dripping trail in her wake.

The first death was a simple sailor, securing a box of supplies just outside the anchor room.

She moved like a wraith; swiftly and silently putting down all she came across, and catching the bodies and lowering them gently to the floorboards. No tell-tale thud of a body crashing to the deck would alert the rest of the ship that an agent of Sithis had come among them.

The winding, narrow passages inside the ship gave her plenty of hidden niches for her to slip into. Many died in their own cots, swift and silent, finding themselves in the Void before it had even registered that they were dead. She would take no chances that someone would wake up to take a piss over the railing and bump noses with her.

Every door but one, far in the back of the ship, opened to her touch. She didn’t waste time jiggling it; that would alert the occupant. Releasing the handle as gently as she had grasped it, she continued through the ship, leaving death in her wake and checking pockets.

It wasn’t until she came to a forward cabin that she found what she was looking for. A Redguard dressed in fine Captain’s armor looked up at her in surprise as she slid in and closed the door behind her.

His eyes narrowed sharply as he realized that he didn’t recognize her face as one of the crew members, and surged to his feet. The shout of alarm that he had been preparing to make was reduced to a gurgle as the werewolf darted forward and sank the Blade of Woe into his throat.

His pockets yielded a Master key.

Satisfied, she returned to the locked door, unlocked it, and entered. The back of the room was nothing but thick, sturdy windows, ornately framed and offering a view of the ocean behind an equally fine, and heavy looking, desk.

An older man looked up from the desk, met her eyes and smiled gently, "And, once more, I prove Commander Maro the fool. I told him you can't stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could."

Kriivah froze, caught off guard by the man’s calm demeanor as he faced his death. His voice was nothing like the pompous double that Kriivah had killed mere days before. Instead, this man wore a quiet dignity with the same comfortable ease that he wore his royal clothes.

He gave her a smile full of gentle humor, "Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking."

“You were... expecting me?” Kriivah couldn’t help but ask.

 "But of course.” he nodded, “You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm? Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is.” He rose to his feet slowly, offering no sign of threat or attempt to escape. “But I wonder... would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done?"

Kriivah shared an internal glance with her wolf, who flicked her tail in a kind of shrug. “I'm listening.”

"I thank you for your courtesy.” The man actually favored her with a small bow, making the Breton blink a little uncomfortably.

Fear was normal. Anger was normal. Dignity was rare. A man offering her the respect of a near equal met in friendship was completely unheard of.

 “You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. I'll not go to my grave whimpering like an infant. But regardless of your path through life, I sense in you a certain... integrity. So I ask of you a favor; little more than an old man's dying wish. While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion. This person, whomever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?"

Kriivah’s mouth dried, “I will… consider it.”

The Emperor nodded, “Thank you. That is all I can ask. Well, on to the business at hand then, hmm? I won't fight you, so we may as well get this over with."

The man turned away from her and walked to one of the windows, his gaze aimed on the nighttime ocean. The Aurora, reflected on the water’s calm surface, was a good sight to go out on, the assassin silently agreed.


	32. Chapter 32

_That death is, perhaps, the only death I feel true regret for._ She told her wolf as they came ashore near the Solitude docks.

_It will be the death that we shall remember. May we face our trip to the Void with the same dignity,_ the wolf agreed.

The trip back to Whiterun took a few days, even riding Shadowmere. Kriivah was silent, thoughts focused on the Emperor’s last request.

As they entered the city gates, she felt the wolf’s silent, wordless question. As she entered the Bannered Mare, the Breton finally, reluctantly sighed.

_“It is very… bad for business to go about killing our Contacts. That is not how we work.”_ she told the wolf. _“Normally, I would reject it out of hand. But… the man deserved at least my considering of it.”_

She entered the back room where Amaund Motierre waited. His gaze turned to her with relief and triumph.

“Titus Mede II now lies dead,” Kriivah told him.

“I know! I know! I received the news not moments ago! Ha ha! This is glorious! My friend, you may not realize it, but you have served the Empire, indeed all of Tamriel, in ways you cannot possibly imagine.” The man caught sight of her disinterested green gaze and smiled a little, “Ah, but you care little for politics, am I right? You want money! And money you shall have! Your payment waits for you at a dead drop. It is inside an urn, in Volunruud, where the Brotherhood first came to meet me.”

Kriivah raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh… ah, right. The Dunmer was the one to meet me.” His smile wavered into a more thoughtful expression. “Very well, when you enter, there is a doorway on the left. Go through it and follow it to the end. There will be a large chest in the room, where your payment awaits. Don’t worry; I made sure to leave every Septim.”

“I hope it is indeed where you say it is,” the assassin said quietly. “I also hope it’s as generous as you claim.”

Motierre swallowed a little nervously. “Surely no one has been stupid enough to stiff the Dark Brotherhood.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Kriivah’s gaze slowly bled green, and the man-at-arms put his hand on the hilt of his sword warily. “Recent events, however, show that many are foolish enough to try. I am not inclined to believe a vague promise.”

“Twenty thousand Septims is a generous offer, right?” Motierre’s voice rose to a squeak at the end.

The green drained back to normal, “It is.”

He let out a breath of relief, “Then please, go. Collect your money, and let us never look upon one another again. Our business, thank the gods, is concluded.”

“Agreed.” The Breton gave him a chilly smile, “Today is the luckiest day of your life.”

“Well, I certainly do feel that way. Now, if, um... you’ll get going?”

The Breton left the room as silently and invisibly as she had entered it. Motierre, unless he was a complete fool, would leave Skyrim immediately. Likely tonight. Kriivah would not be able to visit the ruins and return before the man bolted like a rabbit before a fox.

But if the payment was where he said it was, it would not matter. If the payment wasn’t… well… the Brotherhood’s spreading reputation would be joined by his name. There would be nowhere the man could hide from the Empire’s justice if he reneged on their contract.

The softest scuff of a boot on the wooden floor, and the familiar shape of a tall, wiry Redguard in the shadows of the inn’s main room caused her to turn to follow the figure upstairs.

Nazir smiled at her, a carefully wrapped bundle in his hands. The smell was heady and her mouth watered at the hints of seasoned venison wrapped in a flaky crust.

“A certain jester was fussing about you a few days after you left,” the man told her without preamble, pressing the still steaming meat pie into her hands. “Something about you working yourself to the bone. Since I’ve already been on your case about it, I promised him that I would check up on you.”

Kriivah nodded, devouring the pie hungrily as the Redguard’s dark eyes took her in. “You **do** look weary, girl. I’ve never seen a werewolf with circles under their eyes.”

“I’m going to be so lazy as to be near useless when I get to Dawnstar,” she agreed.

“I don’t blame you.” Nazir had the restraint to wait until the pie was nothing more than the last bits of flavor she was licking off of her fingers before leaning forward, dark eyes alight with hungry hope. “Well? What word of the Emperor?”

“Titus Mede II is dead... by my hand.” Kriivah smiled at him.

“Truly? Could you have brought us more wondrous news? Recent events notwithstanding, this is a happy day for us, my friend. Despite your misfortunes, you stayed true to the Dark Brotherhood. You’ve saved us all, and for this you have my eternal thanks. Now, of course I must ask... Killing the Emperor... How much did Motierre pay for such a thing?”

After a quick glance to make sure they weren’t being observed, she murmured, “It’s in a dead drop. Claims it’s twenty thousand gold. I was leaving tomorrow to get it.”

Nazir’s teeth flashed white in the dim light of the corner they were sitting in. “Ha! Remarkable! Well, the bastard certainly made it worth your while, didn’t he?”

The Breton nodded. A sound below made them turn their heads to look over the balcony. Motierre and his man at arms were leaving.

The Redguard’s gaze returned to her, “Now, might I offer some advice? You should go to Riften and find Delvin Mallory. He’s down below the city, in the Ratway. There’s an underground tavern there where the Thieves Guild gathers. Mallory is an expert ‘obtainer of goods.’ We can use the money to repair and refit our Dawnstar Sanctuary. That money can make a true home for us, hmm? You do that, and I’ll see what I can do about recruiting some new additions to our Family...”


	33. Chapter 33

The Ragged Flagon, as the place was called, was a bustling place. Ignoring the stench of the foul water that flowed through the place, it was a small city beneath the city. Shady merchants, smugglers, and fences had set up shop in alcoves, offering all sorts of merchandise for the underbelly of society… things not generally found in the usual places where goods were purchased.

A low inquiry and a passed coin, got her pointed toward a middle aged Breton man seated alone at a table closer to the bar.

He was showing signs of a receding hairline, tempered by the fact that he had chosen to keep it shaved to the barest stubble on his head. He wore all black armor, a fashion choice that had the assassin throwing a thoughtful eye over it. Red and black was traditional assassin wear, but there was something to be said about apparel that helped one vanish entirely into the shadows.

Kriivah took a seat across from him and met his gaze evenly. She was once again dressed in simple leathers, so she didn't look like much more than a small time adventurer.

He raised an eyebrow at her, expression mildy superior, "Ah, now you, luv, must be lost. Best ya scurry off while you're able. The Ratway, well, it has a habit of swallowin' up the uninvited."

Kriivah smiled a little and shook her head, “I appreciate the warning, Delvin Mallory, but I would say the Ratway would find me a bit difficult to swallow. I am here on business. The Dark Brotherhood requires your services.”

Brown eyes blinked in surprise,  "Oh. Oh I see. Well now, how is Astrid doin' these days? Tell her to stop by sometime. We can have a drink. Catch up.”

“Astrid is dead,” Kriivah let a hint of a growl enter her voice. “She betrayed us, and we handled it.”

“Ooooh. My apologies then, lil’ miss. Ya see, Astrid and I… well we have…. had... a history. Likely more pleasant than your own, ay?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Perhaps. Is her death going to be a point of tension between us?” Kriivah asked.

He blinked, then waved his hand genially, “Oh no, no, no. We can do a bit of civil business, never you fear. We were… friends wi’ benefits, if ya get my drift, when we were much younger. It was well before she met that werewolf bloke who became her husband. We kept it friendly, and thus our guilds built some mutual respect fer one another. If Astrid’s… no longer in the picture, per’aps you can be a contact fer my guild, yeah?”

Kriivah relaxed marginally, “I don’t see why not. Especially if you’ll be an honest enough businessman for us.”

“Always ‘ave been where the Brotherhood is concerned. Now, what do you lot need?"

“Our Sanctuary was destroyed, and we’ve been forced to relocate. Can you repair and refit the Dawnstar Sanctuary?”

"The Dawnstar Sanctuary? That where you lot are holing up in now? Hmm... Tell you what. It'll cost you - a lot - but I can help you out. What kind of budget are we talking about here?" His eyebrows rose when she pulled out her sack of Septims and set them on the table before her. “I see you’re well supplied in that regard. Might it have somethin’ to do with the rumor that Solitude is goin’ all crazy-like?”

He didn't seem to actually expect an answer, because he rose immediately without waiting for a response. A few words with the bartender, and he returned with a roll of paper, a quill and an inkwell. A shot of Colovian brandy also thunked down on the table in front of her. “‘Ere ya go. ‘Ave a drink on me. I think we have some plannin’ to do, and spendin’ yer gold should be accompanied by the pleasure of a good drink.”

Kriivah was briefly surprised by the thief’s generosity. She supposed it was good business to spend a few of your own coins to encourage someone else to spend a lot of theirs.

Discussing the outfitting of the Sanctuary was almost a pleasure to dicker with him over, and though his prices were higher than she would have preferred, they were still reasonable. The man personally guaranteed that the supplies would be delivered by a team of movers that he personally vouched for. The movers… smugglers, really, were the best of the best at ensuring that nothing would be missing, and everything involved would be kept completely confidential.

The plans gobbled up all of the money the assassin had brought. However, she was pleased to come away with plans for a poisoner’s nook, complete with a garden for select plants of Kriivah and Babbette’s choosing, a sleeping area for the rest of the Brotherhood, and a secret entrance that would allow them to escape, should the place come under siege. There was even enough for banners, a well outfitted master bedroom and a torture chamber.

The werewolf had no taste for the latter, preferring swift kills, but she could not deny the need for such things in the future.

Delvin gave her a slightly cheeky grin, “This torture chamber… Would it ‘appen to be for business, or for pleasure?”

The man clearly enjoyed her embarrassed flush, but got away with laughing at her expression with little more than a halfhearted punch to the shoulder.

“I have to say, I’m glad ya can handle a little teasin’, luv.” The thief smiled at her over his bottle of mead, “Some assassins, they’ve got no sense of humor.”

“I’ve got someone grounding me in that regard,” she told him, a small, fond smile on her lips.

“Good to hear it. All right. You should be contacted by someone in a week. Maybe have someone hang about the Windpeak Inn for a few days.”

“Will do. Thank you Delvin.” She clasped the man’s hand warmly before downing the last sip of brandy, savoring the last tang of citrus and the heat of it as it flowed down her throat.


	34. Chapter 34

The Black Door closed silently behind the Breton, leaving her shrouded in deep shadows for a moment. Taking advantage of this, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes in the cool darkness. She wanted to go into whichever small room they were making a temporary living quarters and just… collapse into the nearest bedroll. That would be nice.

Someone was humming a jaunty little tune down the stairs ahead of her, and her lips quirked at Cicero’s voice:

“Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red,  
Who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead.”

“Cicero, don’t start.” Nazir’s voice growled.

“And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade,  
As he told of bold battles and gold he had made.”

“Keeper, if you sing that confounded song one more time, I’m going to cut out your tongue,” Nazir sounded thoroughly ready to follow up on his threat.

Cicero’s increased his volume, his voice becoming more grating as he deliberately goaded the Redguard.

“But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red,  
When he met the shield-maiden Matilda, who said;  
“Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead,  
Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!”

“By Sithis, Cicero, the Tenets only forbid me from **killing** you…” Kriivah could actually imagine the assassin’s eye beginning to twitch, and forced herself to make her way down the stairs to stop whatever cacophony of frustrated violence was about to unfold ahead of her.

“And so then came clashing and slashing of steel,  
As the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of zeal.  
And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more-  
When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!”

She came down the last step and saw Cicero grinning at the Redguard while striking a ridiculous pose.

“That’s it!” The Redguard bellowed, “I’m going to plant you in the troll’s ice cave and shove a sprig of nightshade up your--”

“Listener!” Cicero dodged Nazir’s grasping hands and threw himself at the Breton, embracing her tightly.

Kriivah sighed in weary relief and leaned into his embrace, “Hello Cicero. It’s good to be home.”

“Ahh, Listener. You look like something the sabre cat dragged in,” Nazir commented, shooting Cicero a dark glare, “Let’s get you some food and into a bedroll. Tell me when we can expect to be contacted with Delvyn’s people, and I’ll handle it.”

The Breton counted the days, “They should be arriving at the Windpeak Inn tomorrow. Thank you Nazir. I’m at the point where I would crawl into a crypt and kick a draugr out of its burial niche just for some down time.”

The Redguard smirked, “I would pay the sum of _three_ contracts to see that happen. For now though, I’m glad you are here to muzzle the damn Keeper for a while. Go get ready for bed. I’ll even bring the food to your bedroll this one time.”

_How generous,_ she thought with weary humor.

Cicero was helping hold her upright as much as embracing her. “My Listener is home at last?”

“Yes,” she sighed softly, “and I plan to do nothing but rest for quite some time.”

Cicero giggled and waggled his eyebrows, “Surely there are _some_ activities my Listener would be willing to do.”

Despite her sleep roll calling to her, she smiled. “Let’s wait for _that_ until our master bedroom is complete.”

“Master bedroom? Oh _do_ tell!” The Imperial led her to a small side room and helped her change into simple clothes.

She explained the plans she had hashed out with Delvyn in between bites of the food that Nazir brought her. By the time she was done with both tasks, the two were nodding in satisfaction.

“I’ve also put out some feelers in the underbelly of society,” Nazir told her. “We’ll see what comes back. Now you,” the Redguard pointed one finger at her nose and wagged it slightly, “are to sleep yourself out, you hear? Delvyn’s people will not need your help, so you let them do their work. You’ve done quite enough.”

“You truly put your all into your Family,” Cicero murmured, “but you work too hard. It’s time my Listener sits back and lets others get the work done.”

Kriivah blinked as Nazir nodded. “You’re outvoted, Listener. For once, sit it out.”

She gave them a smirk and acquiesced; “If you insist.”

The Breton wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the simple wooden chair back behind her and the small, two-person table top in front of here were more responsible for holding her upright than any sense of propriety. If the other two were going to badger her into resting, she was willing to pretend that it was all their idea… with token protests, of course.

“Praise Sithis,” the Redguard muttered. “Keeper, if you’re determined to continue Keeping, maybe add Kriivah to your list of duties, hmm?” Nazir shot the red-headed Imperial a raised eyebrow. “Aside from keeping you busy and out from under my feet, I fear we need someone to **keep** our dear werewolf from driving herself into the ground.”

“Hey now, I don’t need…”

Kriivah’s protest was cut off by Cicero grinning and bowing deeply, “As our Speaker commands, so shall it be.”

“But…”

“Good,” Nazir’s voice was brisk. “No time like the present.” He was on his feet almost werewolf fast, and striding away from the sleeping nook before the Breton could object further.

“Hey!” Kriivah yelled after him, then scowled and muttered, “I can climb into a sleep roll on my own, thanks.”

“Hmmm, perhaps my Listener can…” Cicero’s voice was teasing in her ear, “but where’s the fun in going to bed alone?”

He pried the Breton out of the chair with annoying ease, and guided her gently to a bedroll set close to the wall.

She paused when they crossed a scent line.

“I’m not a wolf,” he admitted, “but I hope that walking my own path to claim your wolf’s space is good enough for tonight.”

Kriivah gave him a tired but genuine smile. “More than good enough,” she told him. “Thank you.”

“Good.” He helped her ease into her bedroll, then slid in behind her. “Sleep sweet, my Renae.”


	35. Chapter 35

Kriivah woke slowly, which was unusual, to the sounds of distant activity in the Sanctuary; Delvyn’s smugglers had arrived. The faint rumble of Nazir’s voice told her that things were well in hand.

A fire was crackling merrily in a brazier nearby, bathing her whole front in heat. The room was comfortably warm, and it took her several hazy minutes to realize that her back was warm as well; she was nestled against Cicero, and his arm was draped loosely around her waist.

She took a deep breath, reveling in the scent of him and how it soothed her normally restless wolf. In no hurry to move away, she sighed contentedly and stretched luxuriously.

“I hope you’re not planning to jump up and go sticking your wolfie nose into things,” Cicero chided from behind her. He didn’t sound as though he had just woken up; his usual insomnia had probably gotten him up much earlier.

“I wasn’t planning on it, no,” she told him with a smile over her shoulder. “I take it you’re going to take Nazir’s orders seriously, then?”

“My sweet Listener,” Cicero crooned in return. He planted a feather light kiss on her neck, sending a wave of goosebumps down to her toes, “I am the Keeper. Caring for the Night Mother is my duty. You are the Listener and a conduit for her voice. What kind of Keeper would I be if I cared for only part of the Night Mother’s will?”

“And being my Crow and mate are bonuses, I suppose,” she grinned.

“They do sweeten the deal,” she could hear the answering grin in his voice.

Kriivah relaxed against him again, though she turned so she could see his face. “The next full moon is rising in a day or so. If we can get a harness and a sledge built, would you like to go hunting with my wolf?”

“Is it… safe for me to walk with her?”

The green filled her eyes. “Yes, my Crow.”

Cicero’s smile was dark and dangerous, “What shall we hunt?”

Her smile was predatory in return, “Whatever we find.”

.

A distant howl echoed through the darkness, setting Dawnstar’s guard on high alert. Several men and women at the edges of the town raised their lanterns high and peered suspiciously into the darkness. The full moon was high, but its light was filtered through a haze of cloud; everything beyond the circle of light seemed to be almost unnaturally dark. 

The guards held still; silent, listening, straining for any sound. Something. Anything. The stillness continued to stretch. Then something else was heard. Distant. High pitched. A sharp sound that cut off abruptly. A scream. Then another.

Silence once more.

Hours stretched, and nothing more was heard. The guards continued to strain their ears for any clue as to what was happening beyond the city limits.

“Did you hear it earlier? The howling?” one guard asked another, “I’m telling you, those werewolf tales are true!”

“I heard the howling… and the screams.” A loud scraping sound brought the guards to attention. “And now... This.”

The scraping sound continued; wood being dragged over the cobblestone roads.

“Did you see that?” the second guard gasped, “there’s something out there, in the dark. I swear I saw glowing eyes!”

The two guards raised their lanterns high, and a pair of green eyes looked back.

“What the…?” The first guard reached for his horn to sound the alarm, the second reaching for his sword, when a cheerful voice called out, “Hail friends! Hail and hearty ale, a song of triumph, and good tales all around!”

Both guards hesitated, and a massive four legged beast came out of the darkness, side by side with a slender, wiry man in… of all things... a jester’s outfit.

Both men found their eyes locked on the massive creature. They would almost call it a werewolf, but the colors were wrong, and it was too... wolf-like to be one of those half-shifted abominations. It was covered in blood; even in the faint light of the two lanterns, there was no mistaking the red splashes on the beast’s front to be anything but. The creature’s glowing green eyes burned with unnerving intelligence, and the open mouth was full of very sharp, very white teeth. 

Only the creature’s lolling tongue and placid disregard for the makeshift harness strapped around its powerful chest reassured the guards that the creature was, in any way, tame.

A few steps closer, and a makeshift sledge came out of the darkness behind the creature. Lumpy, jagged shadows on the sledge resolved into an elk of impressive size. The wolf-beast came to a stop before them, staring at the men with an intensity that made the hairs stand up on the back of their necks. There was an air of controlled savagery in the beast’s green eyes; like it could kill them, or simply keep walking… and it didn't care which choice was made.

They got the feeling that any wrong move on their part would decide the beast’s next actions.

“Hail,” the man dressed as a jester repeated, “We’ve just come from a successful hunt. Please forgive your poor, humble neighbors for the scare.”

“W-Well met friend,” the first guard managed with a whoosh of nervous breath, “I admit, your beast gave me quite a start.”

“Forgive my nosiness, friend, but is all that blood… from the elk?” the second guard asked hesitantly.

“Hmm? Oh no, no. Sadly no. My good girl, my good hunter, here brought down the elk after hours of stalking and hunting. We were on our way back when three bandits, three brigands, set upon us. Said that they’d be taking our catch off our hands…  and all of our worldly goods to boot. I objected, and they attacked.” The man patted the wolf-like beast’s red, furred shoulder, “I fought desperately and won against one of them, but it was my lovely partner who took care of two of our attackers.”

The wolf licked her chops nosily and parted her jaws in what could have been described as a predatory leer.

The second guard made an audible swallowing noise.

“Please forgive our appearance, sirs, but it is cold, and we must butcher our catch,” the man named Cicero wheedled, with a pointed glance at the men, who stood in the middle of the road.

“Oh!” the second guard quickly cleared the way, pulling his fellow guardsmen out of the road. “Of course, sir. Of course! And erm… good catch on the elk. We’ll… we’ll just let you be about your business then.”

As the strange pair continued and disappeared into the dark streets of the city, the first guard looked at the second, “I’m not feeling any great hurry to investigate what happened to those bandits. Are you?”

“Bandits die in the wilderness all the time,” the first guard said briskly, “Let’s finish our shift, drink a hearty ale, and forget the whole thing.”

.

Kriivah’s wolf dragged the sledge by the Sanctuary door, and Cicero unstrapped her from the harness. Once freed, she waded into the icy waters of the sea, until her fur was washed clean of the bandit’s blood. She clambered out, and found Cicero pointing his ebony dagger at her in idle warning.

“Shake elsewhere,” he warned.

Her tongue lolled out the side of her muzzle in mischievous glee and began to sidle closer to him.

“Don’t do it!” He warned sharply, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement as well. “I will use the shackles again to tickle torture your belly, naughty wolf.”

“Hrrrrnn,” she replied, doing her best to imply that he was ruining all of her fun. But she obediently loped a fair distance away before giving herself a thorough shake.

With her fur clean and now rapidly drying despite the icy, early morning air, Kriivah’s wolf woofed to him and nodded in the direction of the Dawnstar Sanctuary.

Cicero grinned and sheathed his dagger, “Tonight was a good hunt, but my wolf mate is right. It’s time to go in for the night. Perhaps we can bribe the Redguard to butcher the elk and let us sleep in, hmmm?”

The werewolf huffed, wagged her tail, and stood guard over the kill while Cicero disappeared into the Sanctuary. Nazir would gripe about the hour, but would be more than willing to help get it inside. The elk would feed them for a good while, as they slowly rebuilt their Family. As the Sanctuary door swung back open, Kriivah’s wolf wagged her tail in greeting to Nazir, who nodded to her, a little hesitantly. Pulling and pushing, the two men and werewolf drew the large elk inside, and the otherworldly door closed behind them as the full moon began to set. 

Once they had the carcass situated, Kriivah’s wolf padded to a sleep roll, curled up on top of it and dropped off to sleep. A short time later, the Breton stirred, stretched, and reached for the neatly folded clothes that awaited her.

The Dark Brotherhood’s reputation had flared across the land in hushed whispers. People feared them. The jobs would be lucrative from now on. The Brotherhood had been Purified. 

Kriivah had a home. She had a true pack. They had peace, of a sort. 

She smiled to herself and thought, _Let the dawns come, stained red by the blood of those marked for the kiss of the blade. Hail Sithis._

**The End**


End file.
